The Country House Courtship Page 14

  Beatrice breathed a laugh. “A witch hat! Why would they call it that?”

  “In the absence of an actual spire, some churches do have tops that look like witch hats,” he said, “though you can’t tell from inside.”

  She gazed upward. The heavy ropes for the ringing of the bells disappeared into the darkness of the cavernous large bells above.

  “I should like to hear the bells,” she said, looking up at the large, silent forms.

  “I hope you may.” Their eyes met. His were earnest and quite blue, even in the dim light. He pointed out the steps which would twist and turn all the way to the top of the tower.

  “I shan’t be climbing those today,” she said, in case he was considering it, but he only said, “No, in warmer weather, perhaps.”

  They turned back to the direction of the nave where the rest of the party, save Mrs. Forsythe and Mr. Barton, had gone. The others looked up at the bells, and continued to follow behind Beatrice and Mr. O’Brien.

  While they were still in the porch, Beatrice asked, “What is this?” She was looking at an old plaque of tarnished brass or some such metal that was engraved, but she could not quite make out the inscription. Mr. O’Brien produced some tinder and a box, and he soon had lit a wall sconce which helped.

  “It’s a list,” she said. “But who are they?”

  Mr. O’Brien came and peered at it. “They are the past vicars or rectors, I believe.”

  “Shall your name be added to this list?” she asked, excitedly.

  He smiled. “I don’t know.”

  They looked again with the same thought at the same time: to see if the name of Mr. Hargrove was on it. Their heads were practically touching, and Beatrice said, “I do not see it. He isn’t here.”

  “I’m afraid not” he agreed.

  She turned and his face was right beside hers. Startled, she nevertheless noted afresh that Mr. O’Brien had undeniably beautiful eyes. There was something so benevolent in them; unreproachful, though she knew she deserved to feel his reproach, for she had done nothing but undercut the pride he must have felt at his new house. All of her big talk about making a rich match—why had she felt the need to put him in his place?

  Once again their eyes met, and Beatrice turned away.

  Twelve

  Now Mrs. Forsythe had come up behind them, and saw their proximity to one another, and she did a remarkable thing. She put her hand firmly upon Mr. Barton’s arm (he too saw the pair standing tantalizingly close to one another) and said, “Sir, I desire you take me to the rest of the party.”

  He hesitated; he looked at the couple; he looked at Mrs. Forsythe; she was staring at him, waiting. He looked at the couple again.

  “Sir, if you please!” she said, in an urgent whisper. It was a strident tone coming from this gentle lady. With a breath of resignation, Mr. Barton led her forth, out of the porch, and into the long nave.

  “What is this?” asked Beatrice. She had seen such things before, a large stone in the floor with a design of some sort, or writing worn beyond recognition, and never thought to ask about them. This one was hexagonal and stood out in stark contrast to the brick shaped stones around it.

  “It’s called a memorial stone,” Mr. O’Brien said. “Someone of wealth or high standing pays to have it here, usually to remember a loved one.” He searched around the floor. “Look, here are more of them.” When he looked up again, his eyes were alight. “I say, this building is a delight!”

  Beatrice came and admired the other memorial stones, noting how they were each different, and what their similarities were.

  “The others seem to have moved on quickly,” he said. “But we should look at the baptismal font, for it might be an ancient one; and the stained glass windows often have little areas telling who made them or paid for them.”

  “Upon my word!” said Beatrice. “I feel as though I am in a museum!”

  He stopped and met her eyes. “But you are, Miss Forsythe. Every ancient structure is history come to life. Especially a church.”

  The silence in the large nave (for the others had moved on ahead) was peaceful. She stood, looking about at the pews, the high rafters, and spacious depths of the ceiling; the soft, filtered light that made its way in from the stained glass was just enough to make it all out, but almost as though it was a halo substance; cloudlike, ethereal. They stood side by side for a full minute or more, just gazing around them, taking in the peculiarly intimate atmosphere of a place that could hold a hundred or more people, but was empty except for themselves.

  They moved forward, past many rows of pews, while he pointed out everything of interest that he discovered, and all in his lovely, soft voice. Memorial plaques on the walls, or the indentation where a stone had been, but was no longer intact. After they had peered into the choir loft and admired the high platform from which Mr. O’Brien would give his sermons, he bade her examine the altar-screen. It was an elaborate carved piece of artistry, and Beatrice said, in an awed voice, “Do you know? I have never really looked at one before. I have been raised in the church, and yet I have missed so much of its beauty! Why is that?”

  Mr. O’Brien was silent a moment, and looked away with an unreadable expression. When he looked back at her, he said, with the smallest hint of a smile, “Perhaps it is because you never looked at one with me, before.” There was a question mark at the end of his statement, and it hung there in the air between them.

  From somewhere else in the building, far away, they could hear the muted tones of the others; still his question remained, until she said, “I think you are exactly right! I must tell my mother what a good church guide you are; a historical guide.” He stepped closer, saying, “Allow me to show you the leading pews, which I have a suspicion will be carved quite spectacularly, since the altar-screen is so elaborate.” He moved her forward, putting one arm lightly about her waist, and then they both heard someone clear his throat rather loudly.

  Mr. Barton stepped forward out of the enchanting foglike darkness. “May I join you?” he asked, in a loud voice that contrasted with the low tones Beatrice and Mr. O’Brien had been using. It was such a sharp, jarring note to her ears that it sounded like an impurity within a holy vale. He had ruined a magic moment, and the worst part of it was that Beatrice hadn’t known it was magic until it was over. She felt the loss of it, and wondered briefly why being alone with Mr. O’Brien—whom she had thought too sober-minded to be any fun—had been comfortable and warm and lovely; while the entrance of Mr. Barton—whom she always found so amusing and agreeable—should be felt as an intrusion.

  “I hope you find your new church agreeable?” he said, coming toward them.

  Mr. O’Brien said, “Utterly. I thank you.”

  “Excellent,” he replied. His eyes did not match the smile upon his face. “I also hope you have seen enough of it for your satisfaction. The rest of the party waits outside for you.” This last was finished in a more serious tone, and Mr. Barton made sure, even though Beatrice had taken Mr. O’Brien’s offer of his arm, to put her other hand upon his own, so that she came out in the middle of the two men.

  Over her head, while she smiled at her sister and mother, the gentlemen exchanged looks. The eyes of Mr. O’Brien were curious, and at most, cautious; Mr. Barton, however, gave the curate a look calculated to chill; it was by turns challenging and defiant. He had no intention of letting Miss Forsythe slip through his fingers.

  When they reached the waiting party, Beatrice slipped away from both men. She fell into step with the other ladies, and they shared their impressions of the old building and its surprising beauty and history, as they returned to the carriage. Ariana and her mother exchanged wondering, happy looks: To find Beatrice so enthralled over the old building was a singular surprise. And encouraging.

  The sun was near setting. The day had gone by swiftly!

  Ariana went on to praise the vicarage, which Beatrice thought was rather too rapturous, until her mother added her admiration of it,
which made it sound like the finest house in all England.

  She understood their object; they wanted her to admire it, to agree that it would make a perfectly respectable and comfortable dwelling. She understood that Mr. O’Brien certainly found it so, and that she, too, ought to have. But she thought of Aspindon House, and her heart hardened.

  She could not be happy, she was sure, in a common house like the vicarage. Mrs. Forsythe had lost patience with her silence, however, and asked, “Beatrice? Do you not admire the house?”

  “How can I?” she returned. “When you are doing it far too brown already?”

  Ariana had to smile.

  Soon they were sitting in the barouche, except for Mrs. Forsythe and the Bartons. Miss Barton was quick to take the coach as she thought it would agree with her more. Somehow Mrs. Forsythe managed to get Mr. Barton into that equipage as well, though Beatrice could not guess how. She knew Mr. Barton would have preferred to keep an eye on her and Mr. O’Brien—she sensed it.

  But it was done. And so, for the twenty or so minutes of the slow drive back (Beatrice did not know why the barouche proceeded so slowly), she sat with Mr. O’Brien directly across from her and conversed with him. Ariana had put her husband to the far left side of the seat, and herself in the middle, next to Beatrice. She proceeded to snuggle against her husband, and whisper to him with such small talk and little chuckles that husbands and wives enjoy at times, as though the rest of the world ceases to exist, that the other two in the carriage were virtually alone.

  Soon Mr. Mornay threw a lazy arm around the shoulders of his wife, and Beatrice felt as though she really was alone with Mr. O’Brien again. She wondered if that strange sense of intimacy would return, but he began to talk, for some reason, of why he entered the church for a vocation, and soon she was lost in the conversation and forgot all about her own feelings. She only knew that Mr. O’Brien had every reason in the world to be a churchman, and that he was supremely fit for it.

  She also realized that, in contrast to his, her devotional life (which she had thought to be sufficient for any Christian) was actually rather devoid of life, of excitement, of genuine communication with the Lord. The way Mr. O’Brien spoke of his devotions, of his time spent in Bible readings and prayer—oh! How had she missed so much instruction when she sat in the family pew every Sunday of her life? She almost felt as though she knew nothing of God—but that could not be true!

  When the barouche pulled up to the estate, Mr. Barton was there waiting in front of his own carriage, for he and Miss Barton were returning to the Manor. His arms were crossed, as though he’d been waiting for an age, though it could only have been a few minutes.

  He went directly to Mr. Mornay as soon as he’d jumped down from the equipage. Mr. O’Brien handed Beatrice down, and offered his arm for the short walk to the house.

  Before going, Beatrice heard Mr. Barton say, “Sir! May I have just a word with you? It is quite important.” And then they had moved on. She wondered what he would have to say that was “quite important,” but had no clue.

  They had only been gone for one afternoon, but as the dusk closed in, just as they went inside the house, Beatrice had the feeling that she’d been on a much longer outing. A journey of some kind.

  A change of heart.

  Mrs. Royleforst desired to hear every detail of the vicarage and Mr. O’Brien’s situation that she could wring out of the others, during a quiet dinner in the dining room that was strangely subdued. Ariana spoke warmly of the house, as did Mrs. Forsythe, and it was easy to see that Mr. O’Brien felt a great deal of pride in his new situation, but he was inclined to fall quickly back into silence. Beatrice, keeping her eyes carefully away from the curate’s, had to admit some admiration for the house and property. It was a place that a family could be comfortable in she said, thinking to herself that it was nevertheless not her kind of dwelling.

  “I believe we are all fatigued,” said Mrs. Forsythe, by way of explanation to Mrs. Royleforst, who was complaining at the lack of spirit about the table. When the meal had ended, the ladies rose to leave the gentlemen to a customary glass of port and male conversation, which for the very first time felt comfortable to Mr. O’Brien. Contrary to anything he had expected—Mr. Mornay was fast becoming agreeable. Astonishing.

  In the drawing room, the ladies took up their needlework, but Beatrice could hardly focus on her canvas. She was about halfway done with a Bible verse that she had chosen to embroider as a present for Papa. The verse was, Seek ye first the kingdom of God, and his righteousness; and all these things shall be added unto you. Mt. 6:33. It was a favourite scripture of her father’s, and she stared at it. She had chosen it for Papa, not for her own use, not so that she could meditate on its meaning or significance, but she found herself doing just that.

  Seek ye first the kingdom of God: that much was finished, in a lovely purple thread that she had saved up, tuppence by tuppence, to purchase. She felt as though the words were being emblazoned, not on her canvas, but on her conscience. Was she seeking God’s kingdom in desiring to make a rich match? Yes! She would use her wealth in good causes; for the sake of the poor! Wouldn’t she?

  She sighed.

  She could not lie to herself. Her desire for a rich husband had nothing to do with God’s kingdom, and she knew it. She felt entitled to wealth simply because Ariana had got herself a rich husband, with a beautiful house, and servants and luxuries. She swallowed the lump forming in her throat and looked at the room she was in. The elegant furnishings, the warm draperies, the Chinese wallpaper, and rosewood-bottomed sofas, topped with plump upholstery. A tear or two came into her eyes. It was not fair! Why could her sister enjoy such beauty in her home and be perfectly acceptable to God, while she was required to forgo it?

  “Beatrice? Are you unwell?” Ariana was looking at her, and Beatrice blinked the tears away.

  “I believe I shall retire early tonight,” she said, folding up her work and putting it neatly into her work basket. When she had said her good-nights, and was leaving, the men were just coming into the room, and she met them at the door.

  “Good-night,” she said. She tried to smile, but it was a poor attempt for a girl who usually did not lack smiles.

  “Good-night and God bless you,” Mr. O’Brien said. She barely heard Mr. Mornay’s “Good-night,” and then strode swiftly down the corridor.

  She suddenly wanted a good cry, and was going to have it.

  The next day at breakfast Beatrice ate little, did not attempt to play with Nigel or show the least interest in the baby, and answered only if spoken to. Mr. O’Brien studied her quietly, but she would not return a single look. Her habitual cheerfulness seemed to have deserted her.

  Finally she asked Ariana, “Have you decided upon a date for going to London? When I may come too?”

  Mrs. Forsythe raised her brows at her daughter, but said nothing.

  Ariana, surprised, said, “Mr. Mornay and I have not had a chance to speak upon it, actually.” After a pause she added, “The Season won’t begin until near May; there is plenty of time.” She exchanged a look with her husband. His brief meeting with Mr. Barton the previous evening had raised the subject of a trip to London—or Brighton. Mr. Barton had said, “I beg your pardon, sir, for I meant to speak of this to you already, but the time never seemed quite right.”

  “Yes?” Mr. Mornay answered.

  “I have had a note from His Royal Highness,” Mr. Barton lied. He had settled upon the creation of an imaginary note from the prince as the most innocent way to broach the subject so that it did not appear premeditated. He waited to see if that would sufficiently impress his host, who merely nodded, however, to his disappointment. He went on, “The prince has asked me to get you to him; he desires to move forward with the viscountcy.”

  Mr. Mornay merely said, “Hmmm.”

  “Have you corresponded with the College of Heralds to settle upon a name for the title, sir?”

  Without answering the question, Mr. Morn
ay merely said, “So he asks you to be his emissary? Why did he not write directly to me?”

  Mr. Barton cleared his throat. “I believe he has gone down that path, sir, and found it to be blocked at both ends.”

  Mr. Mornay nodded, amused.

  “Very good, Barton. Obliged. I will write to the Regent later this week.” As he started to walk off, he turned back to say, with a knowing look, “You may inform him of such.”

  “Thank you, sir.” But his tone was not enthusiastic. His eyes narrowed as he watched the man offer his arm to his wife, who had waited at a polite distance, and then turn toward the house. Dashed if Mornay wasn’t as slippery as a net full of eels! He had made a small step of progress, but it was not the sort of letter he was eager to send the prince. He had to find out when the man meant to accept the title.

  As he climbed into the carriage beside Anne, who still had Ariana’s shawl (for she would not take it back), he saw her pull its ends closer about her as she shivered with the cold. She did not ask about Tristan’s words with Mr. Mornay. But suddenly Mr. Barton had a brain child. He’d been speaking to the wrong person. Surely Mrs. Mornay understood her husband’s intentions in the matter.

  They would return the next day, and he would ply that lady with his questions. He was bound to fall upon the truth, and then he could write the prince and know some success in the matter! Then, he could turn his thoughts to Miss Forsythe entirely. He had plans for her.

  When they were back in the Manor House, Mr. Barton said to his sister, “I was pleased to see you engaging in conversation today for a change. You are much more fetching when you are in a good humour, I must say.”

  “I begin to feel better,” Miss Barton said, taking a breath. She removed her bonnet and gloves and gave them to their manservant, and then her redingote.

  Mr. Barton said, “Huzzah for that. Do you think it will last? This feeling better?”

  “I have no idea, to be honest!” she eyed him brightly. “But I intend to make the most of it.” But she sighed. “Mrs. Mornay and her mother are the kindest women!”