The Country House Courtship Page 15

  “What about Miss Forsythe?” he asked, following his sister into their parlour.

  “Oh, she is agreeable, to be sure, but she is young, that’s all.”

  Mr. Barton positioned himself lazily upon the sofa, one leg upon the brow comfortably, taking it down only to allow their manservant to remove his shoes, replacing them with slippers.

  “Stoke up the fire, will you, Dilworth?” he said. “It’s dashed chilly in here!” Anne had already wrapped herself in a heavy shawl so that only her arms were free and peeking out, for she had taken up her needlework. Barton wasn’t paying attention, and she wanted to complete the little booties she was working on. Her next project would require white yarn, for she wished to knit a little dress and cap for Miranda. From where she sat, she heard Barton sigh loudly. She looked over at him, her lips compressed in disapproval at his lackadaisical posture upon the couch.

  “Of what are you thinking?” she asked.

  “I am thinking of how to accomplish my mission. Mornay is as sly as a weasel; every time I try to learn his thoughts on a matter, he ends up making quick work of me. Dashed if I know how he does it! He is somehow eluding me, and I cannot say whether he is up to tricks, or if it is simply his way.”

  “Why should he be up to tricks?” She raised her eyes again to him, a small alarm upon her features. “Do you think he suspects your motives?”

  “Why should he? I told him outright what I was about for the Regent. But I do think he has reservations about me. Don’t know what for, that’s all.” He had a thought. “I hope it isn’t you!”

  “That’s impossible!” she said. She thought of her dealings with the man up to now. Whenever his eyes happened to fall upon her, or if he spoke to her, she saw a softening as though he understood, instinctually perhaps, that Miss Barton was a gentle creature, and required gentle treatment. She said, “He has been nothing but politeness and consideration to me, in fact.”

  “Very well; so it is me he is concerned about.”

  “I know what it is!” said the sister, with a sudden realization.

  “Well?” he waited.

  “You have been flirting shamefully with Miss Forsythe, and he cannot like it. If you would wish to win the man, you must steer clear of his sister.”

  “His wife’s sister.”

  “Same thing.”

  He frowned. “Hmmph! I suppose you have hit it. I will have to proceed carefully, henceforward.”

  “What do you mean? Only cease your attentions to her, your little jokes—and you will have an easier path.”

  “Well, the thing is, I happen to enjoy giving my attentions to Miss Forsythe, and our little jokes, as you put it. In fact, if she returns my feelings, it may just as likely put him off his guard, as on it. Could he not hold me in favour simply for her sake?”

  “You are naive, sir!” Miss Barton was smiling, almost finding it funny that her brother could be so muddleheaded. “Men do not favour other men who show affection for females within their households! You know this to be true.”

  He sat up abruptly.

  “Not necessarily! They might become chums, you know.”

  Miss Barton knitted on. “Are you forming an attachment for Miss Forsythe, Tristan?” Her quiet words held more than their usual gravity, and she stopped working to survey him with wide eyes.

  He put his hands behind his head and blew out a breath, thinking. “I do not know, if truth be told. But I do not consider it impossible. She is young, which I like, and above pretty, and sweet, and she is in Mornay’s family. If I were to get hitched to her—”

  “Must you be so vulgar?” Her expression was pained.

  “Very well,” he said smiling. “If I were to marry her, I would be in Mornay’s family. He would then of necessity favour me, would you not say?”

  She said nothing for a moment, concentrating on what was in her hands, but her face wore a deep frown. “Do you see this as your way to convince Mornay to accept the title?”

  “To the devil with the title! I’ll be in his family if I win Miss Forsythe! That’s far to my advantage, and if he becomes Lord Mornay, or whatever his title, all the better!”

  Miss Barton sat back herself, but she was worried. “I pray you don’t give him a disgust of you, Tristan. I do like them, you know.” She paused, thinking of the new acquaintances. “Each of them—they are all exceedingly kind.” She looked at her brother, and her eyes held a plea. “Be careful in how you present yourself.”

  “I cannot fathom your concern. I am intent upon cementing myself to the family through marriage, and you speak as if I were about to create a chasm.”

  “If you truly are to form an attachment to Miss Forsythe,” she said, “I hope it will be for herself, not for her family connexion. Be thoughtful of her, Tristan. Do not take advantage of her youth.”

  He scowled. “Miss Forsythe stands to benefit from our alliance as much as I do! She is seeking a wealthy match, Anne, and I have the fortune to support her in style.”

  “You mean, you did have the fortune; but you have gamed away a good portion of it. Is that not why you sold our family home?”

  He shrugged. “You speak as though I am ruined; nothing like it, I assure you!”

  Miss Barton was not assured. She had long suspected that her brother was gaming away his entire subsistence. However, she only said, “But is there also admiration for herself?” She paused, looking plaintively over at him. “Do you love her, Tristan Barton?”

  He looked in surprise at her. “My dear Anne! How can I tell if I love a girl apart from her bringing some advantage to me? The thing is impossible, I tell you! I like her well enough, I’ve said so. May we leave it at that?” He looked pained at having to even consider the matter.

  Anne returned to her work. “I sometimes think you are incapable of loving a woman,” she said quietly.

  He heard her, and tried to make sense of her statement, but in the end gave up, and lay back down upon the sofa, replacing his one leg upon the brow comfortably. What was she talking about? He’d loved women before. Almost took on a mistress, dash it! What did Anne know of love, in fact? She was certainly not one to talk, by Jove. He closed his eyes, hoping for a few minutes’ nap.

  Thirteen

  Beatrice was too restless to remain at the table a moment longer, and she came to her feet. Mrs. Forsythe knew something was niggling at her daughter, and asked, “Where are you off to, my dear?”

  “I am in need of some fresh air,” she said. “Some exercise, I think. I’ll just take a turn about the property, if I may.”

  Ariana said, “It’s very cold. Stay close to the house. We can’t have you getting lost on us.”

  Mrs. Forsythe said, with a careful look at Mr. O’Brien, “I do not think you ought to go off alone at all.”

  Mr. O’Brien’s response warmed her heart when he immediately wiped his mouth with his napkin and said, rising from his chair, “If Miss Forsythe will grant me the honour, I’d be delighted to escort her.”

  “Why, thank you, sir!” exclaimed Mrs. Forsythe.

  Beatrice had been about to decline the offer, but now she could say nothing.

  “You are very kind,” her mother added, and she sent Beatrice a look of warning. Beatrice wished she could say aloud, I know exactly what you are about, Mama, and it shan’t work, I promise you. Nothing will come of it. You think that by throwing me together with Mr. O’Brien, a romance may happen—but nothing could be further from my mind. My heart is set on London, for I am determined to have a proper coming-out, and I expect to meet many marriageable gentlemen there.

  Instead, she merely compressed her lips and went toward the front entrance hall. Mr. O’Brien came fast on her heels, and said, to her relief, nothing.

  Mr. Horton’s face was set in a stern look.

  Frederick had informed the master, as soon as he’d done with his morning meal, that his steward waited upon him in the business office on the ground floor.

  “Have him come to my study,
” Mr. Mornay said, and started at once for the room. He felt a twinge of concern when the steward entered, and he saw the man’s face.

  “What’s the trouble?” he said as he motioned for him to take a seat. Mr. Horton shook his head; he would stand. He took a breath.

  “Sir, I am sorry to have to inform you—there’s sickness in the cottages.”

  “What sort of sickness?” Mornay asked.

  “That’s just it, sir; I can’t be sure, yet. It’s supposed to be the London fever.”

  “Supposed to be?”

  “There’s talk among the men, sir. It always starts out this way; one man don’t want to lose his wages, so he keeps quiet if someone in his house falls sick. But the women get whiff of it, somehow, and it starts to get out, see.”

  “But the one who lets it out must know the truth.”

  “No one’ll take credit for that, to be sure! That’s like treason, sir, among the working class, for it ends with a man losin’ his work.”

  “Of course,” he murmured, mostly to himself. “We’ll have to do a sweep.”

  “Right, sir! That’s precisely why I come to you. I’m ready to go knockin’ on doors, but I wanted your permission afore I did. I’ll send word as soon as I know what’s what.”

  Mr. Mornay was nodding his head, but he said, “Be very thorough, but do not be harsh or alarming. No one is to know what you’re searching for, saving yourself and the man you take with you. And if you find a hint of the fever, we’ll get Mr. Speckman here at once to diagnose and treat it.”

  “Even if I find sickness, they won’t let me call a doctor, sir, it’s far too dear—”

  “Unless the illness is everywhere rampant, it will be at my expense. I’m hoping we’re in time to contain it.”

  “Very good, sir. Thank you, Mr. Mornay.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Horton.”

  Mr. Mornay sat at his desk a few moments longer. This could be very bad news indeed; on the other hand, it might be nothing. Rumours did have a way of getting magnified as they spread. Nevertheless, he took out a sheet of paper and dipped his quill. He would write to Mr. Speckman, the family physician, to put him on the alert of what might be brewing. He told him to study the latest remedies for the fever which was sprouting up in London of late—in case.

  When done, he used the bellpull to summon a servant to deliver the message immediately to the village. Then, his gaze fell upon the Bible, and he placed his hand upon the leather cover, feeling the grain of the leather. God. God was the Great Physician. He put his hands together, rested his head upon them, and prayed.

  Afterward, before returning upstairs, he decided to say nothing as yet to any of his guests, nor even his wife. There was no reason to cause anyone to fret when he had no real facts to go on. Once he heard back from Mr. Horton, and once the doctor had seen those who were affected, he would make any necessary announcement. He hoped that it would not be necessary.

  Beatrice maintained her silence all the way around the turn of the house and past the stables, to the maze. It surprised her that Mr. O’Brien followed her lead, and did not talk. She was glad of it, however. She was glad of the silent stillness of winter. There wasn’t another human being in sight save themselves. The workers, which might have been about the grounds in spring or summer, tending plants or crops, or repairing fences, were nowhere to be seen; and the servants who might have journeyed along that very route to the great house each morning to appear for their duties had long ago arrived and begun their tasks.

  She looked about them, and saw that off to one side of the grounds, a wood began. There looked as though a path was in it, but it wended out of sight and she could not tell how far it went.

  “May we take the woodland path?” she asked him, pointing over at it. He looked over, but said, “Are you not cold, yet?”

  “No, I’m fine,” she said. “And I enjoy a brisk walk. If we move quickly, we can stay warm and still see where it leads.” She could not help but feel more optimistic now that she was out of doors. The day was bracingly cold, but only her face was really exposed. Beatrice had on as wintry a costume as a lady could procure. She had chosen a hooded cloak to wear over her jaconet muslin gown and velvet spencer; a bonnet beneath the hood, and a cap beneath the bonnet; an extravagantly oversized rabbit muff enclosed one of her gloved hands, such as was in style for ladies; so only her feet and cheeks reminded her of the weather, or, during a sudden breeze, her legs, which were protected only by the dress, the open cloak, and stockings. Her half-boots of kid leather were sturdy enough, but not precisely warm.

  “Very well then,” he said. “Why not?” A brief smile lit his face and was rewarded with a look of thanks from Beatrice. Mr. O’Brien had his overcoat and a scarf wrapped around his neck and lower face, and a hat, and gloves, and still wore the hunting boots he had appeared in the day before.

  About a quarter mile from the house, following the well-worn path, Beatrice said, “It seems less cold here.”

  “There is no wind,” he said. “The trees are bare, but they are so thick that they break it before it reaches us.”

  “This must be a lovely trail in summer.”

  “I am sure.” They walked on, moving briskly. His long strides now and then were shortened to keep equal pace with her smaller ones. “Let me know at once, Miss Forsythe, if you are tiring, or wish to turn back.”

  “I am tiring,” she said with a little smile (and he was very glad of that smile too), “but I am above all things curious. I must know where this comes out!”

  He said, “Mr. Mornay has a great property here; we will probably come out to a field, taking its winter rest from growing some crop or other. Do you know what he plants?”

  “I have no idea,” she admitted. “But it may not be a field, and you see, sir, I have to know!” She hurried on, with the feeling that they were surely near the end of this path; the tree trunks around them were gradually thinning. She could see an opening to one side, which added to her hope of reaching a clearing. They walked on, and even Mr. O’Brien’s long steps were not equal to her haste.

  But the path went on. Beatrice was getting cold, and her feet hurt exceedingly from it, and she was feeling cross that the end of the path was still not visible. Still she refused to turn back.

  “I daresay we are going too far in this cold,” the curate finally said, slowing to a halt.

  “I see something,” she cried, and quickened her pace even further. “I think it’s a house!” Her nose and cheeks and chin were all red with cold, but she hurried on, crying, “Oh, look, it is a house!”

  The path veered to the right, and there was the end of the woods, abruptly and suddenly, and after that, about a hundred feet before them, the building she had glimpsed through the trees.

  She stopped to catch her breath, panting from the excitement and exercise. Mr. O’Brien took hold of her scarf, saying, “Cover your mouth and nose when you breathe that hard in this weather.”

  She nodded, doing as he said, but she kept looking at the little dwelling before them.

  “What do you think this place is?” she asked.

  They both surveyed the house, and Beatrice started walking toward it again. There was a gated fence with a stone path that led to the door of the modest-sized cottage, and it made a cozy picture. As they drew nearer, they could see there was a small stable behind the house; only large enough for one or two horses.

  “What a quaint, cheerful place, is it not?” Beatrice asked. “Right out of the pages of a storybook!” Then she looked at him as if struck. “This must be Glendover! The parsonage!”

  He was looking ahead too, and slowly nodded. “It may be; it is small, however. I seem to recall Mrs. Mornay speaking of it as being larger than Warwickdon’s parsonage.” They had reached the gate, and he stopped; but Beatrice reached down and undid the latch. “May we see if the house is open? My feet are rather numb.” She was stamping them trying to warm them. His brows came together in concern.

  “Are the
y?”

  “I cannot feel them at all, I think!”

  “Miss Forsythe!” He was now very concerned. “Why did you not say something to me sooner?” With one arm he hurried her through the gate. He was looking around urgently, and he said, “We won’t find anyone here, I can tell you that, for there’s no fire inside. Anyone would have a fire in this weather.”

  She looked up at him, and his face was now creased in worry. “I should not have allowed us to come this far!” He looked ahead to the house—should he try and carry her? The girl was not large, and he knew he could easily lift her, but something told him it was better for her condition if she kept putting some weight on her feet. She had to keep using them.

  When they finally came up to the front of the cottage, there was little to shelter them except for a foot or so of thatched roof, overhanging the eaves. Mr. O’Brien said, “I’m quite sure it isn’t occupied, but I’d best knock first.” He did, firmly, a number of hard raps to the door that anyone within would have heard. No response. He put his hand to the door handle and pressed his lips together: “Here goes.” He tried the long brass handle, and with a little, miraculous “click,” he felt it open, and then pushed with his shoulder to make the door move. He helped Beatrice over the threshold, and then firmly shut the door behind them.

  “Now I cannot see!” she cried.

  “Your eyes will adjust,” he murmured, squinting himself to get their bearings. He began feeling with his hands over and around the doorjambs. He came across a candle in a sconce, and then found some flint and a piece of char-cloth. “I believe I can get this lit,” he said, “if you will hold the candle.” She came toward his voice and put out her hand and felt—his overcoat. “Here it is,” he said, taking her hand in one of his and putting it to the candle.

  She held it up. After a few failed attempts, suddenly there was a spark, and a quick application of the char-cloth, and then a small flame.