The House in Grosvenor Square Page 2

  Looking across at her suitor, she wondered if it would jar with his disposition to become a philanthropist? It was expected of the wealthy, wasn’t it? Even in her little town of Chesterton, it was the wealthiest families, those with the huge estates who held the annual balls, the Harvest Home, and the Christmas hall festivities. Mr. Mornay was part of this wealthy class. She hoped it would fall to her as his wife to support charities and organize events to benefit the community.

  “Ariana!” She was torn from her thoughts by her aunt’s strident tone. “Did you say which street the Orphanage is on?”

  Mr. Mornay spoke in her stead. “Folgate Street, Spitalfields. Just north of Spitalfields Market.” He met Ariana’s eyes, and added, “I own a property on the street, you know.”

  “Do you?” She was surprised because it was not a fashionable part of the city. “A house?” she asked, to prolong the conversation. Finally he was at least giving her his attention.

  “A tenement.”

  Mrs. Bentley’s curiosity got the best of her. “You own property there?”

  He gave a rueful smile. “Won it in a wager, I’m afraid. My man of business sees to letting it and so forth. I’ve never laid eyes on it, actually, though I’ve been meaning to give it a look.”

  Mrs. Bentley fished a lace-edged handkerchief from her reticule and put it over her mouth and nose as if the mere fact of passing through the neighbourhood might result in being exposed to noxious vapours.

  Mr. Pellham took her other hand and patted it.

  Beatrice, all eyes, extended her hand to Mr. O’Brien. “Would you like to take my hand, Mr. O’Brien?” she asked. His eyes opened rather wide, but before he could say anything, Mrs. Bentley chided, “Hush!” and, reaching across Ariana, landed a harmless slap to the girl’s outstretched hand with her handkerchief. Why do youngsters have to do the most foolish things imaginable? Isn’t it enough that I had to steer Ariana clear of the future cleric? Will I now have to do the same for my younger niece when she comes of age?

  Mr. O’Brien, meanwhile, smiled briefly at the girl to be kind, but he was much more concerned, despite his best efforts, with her elder sister. He’d been taking as many glances at Ariana as he could safely take, as if trying to memorize every adorable feature. The blonde hair and lively eyes in an oval face, the diminutive nose and soft lips. He had lost her to Mornay, there was no way around it, but it was a difficult pill to swallow. Indeed, he wasn't certain whether he'd agreed to join the party to see the dramatic reader, or to see Miss Forsythe. He had no wish to make a jackanape of himself, but it was impossible to pass up the opportunity to be in her company.

  The company of the Paragon was a different matter. He felt more than a little antipathy toward his rival. To be seated beside him now struck him almost as extraordinary, and he was mute from caution, jealousy, and surprise. He had always scoffed at the man’s reputation for excellent taste, but in his presence he could not deny feeling a reluctant admiration. Mr. Mornay’s clothing made a stark contrast to his own less costly attire, and the man’s dark double-breasted tailcoat with tapered sleeves made his own frock coat, though sturdy, appear plain, indeed.

  At that moment Beatrice unhelpfully exclaimed, “Your coach is ever so pretty, Mr. Mornay! ʼTis far more comfortable than my father’s.” She fingered the dark burgundy velvet of her seat. “I wish my mother and father could see it!”

  “Hush!” Ariana said, not without affection.

  “Do you not fancy the coach? I could ride in it for days!” she exclaimed, wide-eyed.

  “Of course I fancy it, but it doesn’t signify.”

  “Is your carriage as agreeable as this one, Mr. O’Brien?” the girl asked, making him shudder inwardly. He thought of the family equipage he used when taking his mamma and sisters about town; compared to Mornay’s gleaming, springed and upholstered vehicle, his was unmistakably shabby.

  “No,” he answered, but he smiled.

  Just then everyone’s attention was diverted as they pulled up outside a large Palladian style building fenced in by black iron gates. The London Orphan Society was a stately institution. Mr. Pellham exclaimed, “Undoubtedly the work of Mr. Nash, wouldn’t you say, Mornay?”

  Mr. Mornay, observing the building as best he could, nodded. “Very likely.” A gateman opened the way for them, and the coach moved forward into a circular drive which brought them round to the front entrance.

  As the group stepped into the building, Mrs.Bentley raised her ankle-length pelisse as though it might drag on the tiled floor. Ariana straightened her dark-blue French-style canezou, which had a deep flounce along the shoulders, neck-line, and empire waist. Beneath her bonnet, which sported two round puffs of pale, gathered fabric at the top, a few little ringlets of blonde hair framed her face—evidence of enduring a night with curling papers beneath her cap. She was bright with youthful beauty this morning.

  She happily accepted Mr. Mornay’s arm, tucking her other hand upon his coat sleeve. She searched his countenance for a hint of the warmth she’d come to expect, but he maintained a stony disregard of her.

  The little group followed a headmistress who curtseyed and introduced herself as Mrs. Gullweather. She led them down a long stone hall to the chapel, which had a massive interior, circular ceiling and many long, stained-glass windows, sparkling prettily with morning light. A man-servant led them to seats in a front row, behind which sat other guests and then rows and rows of children—the orphans, no doubt.

  Ariana sat down cognizant of the pleasure of being next to Mr. Mornay. She glanced at him now, but he continued to study the area ahead where Mrs. Gullweather stood, preparing to speak.

  “Before we begin,” Mrs. Gullweather said, “We have arranged for the children to entertain you. We endeavour to educate them profitably. Most of our graduates go on to lead productive lives in society. We have had dozens of young people go off as missionaries in foreign lands, and we also furnish a good many governesses, cooks, and housemaids for people of quality. Many of our young gentlemen, it must be added, who do not choose the mission field, go on to find apprenticeships, or serve as footmen or grooms in the best households.”

  With a wave of her hand, she added, “These are the same children who are brought to us destitute and with nothing but poverty, death, or a life of crime facing them. It is only by the generous help of our patrons,” she smiled benignly towards them, “that we are able to effect such changes for society.” After a brief pause she added, “And now—the children.”

  The sight of the young orphans erased all other concerns from Ariana’s heart. How glad she was to have come today! She wished to somehow make a difference for children like these. God knew each by name and loved every one of them. The children began the strains of an old hymn, “Ye Holy Angels, Bright.” By its end, Ariana felt satisfied that the London Orphan Society was a worthy cause, indeed.

  When the dramatic actress, Mrs. Tiernan, finally stood before them, silent and grave of countenance, a hush fell over the audience. A minute passed, and everyone waited. But the woman remained silent with her eyes fixed on a spot overhead, as if transfixed . Just when everyone despaired of her ever doing anything other than staring at that spot, she cast her eyes upon the assembly. With a flourish of an arm, she cried, in a piercing voice, “Hear the Word of the Lord!”

  Then, in a quieter tone, “A dramatic reading from the Book of Revelation, chapter one, verses ten through twenty.” She slowly swept her gaze across the onlookers, flickering an otherworldly eye momentarily upon Ariana and her companions. Then she dropped to her knees, her arms raised high, and her head turned as if listening to something. In a clear, authoritative tone, she began in earnest.

  “I was in the Spirit on the Lord’s Day. And I heard behind me a great voice as a trumpet.” She added measured movements of her arms like a dancer, so that she made a captivating sight.

  “I turned to see the voice that spake with me…and out of his mouth went a sharp two-edged sword.” She made a motio
n as if taking a sword from its sheath, and then, magically, a small leather Bible was in her hand. It was a concrete allusion to the “two-edged sword” being the Word of God. And then just as quickly as it appeared, the book was gone.

  The audience gasped.

  After a moving rendition of the remaining verses, Mrs. Tiernan froze with her head bowed.

  Mr. O’Brien stood and led the room in applause. This rather amazed Ariana—for Mr. O’Brien was not a bold person—but he had the impetus of knowing the presentation had ended for he alone had been following along in his little leather Bible. Finally, when the applause ceased, the lady bowed low once more so that everyone had to clap again, and then she said, “Thank you! Thank you!” and swept out of sight, leaving from a hidden exit behind the pulpit.

  The guests were led to a small dining hall where a light repast was waiting.

  “I daresay she cast a spell on us,” chuckled Mr. Pellham, tugging on his moustache thoughtfully. Mrs. Bentley added, “Rather a bit of a trickster, I should think. Making that little book appear and disappear as if by magic. And in a chapel!”

  Mr. O’Brien cleared his throat. He hated to disagree with anyone who was socially superior to him, but he had to correct what he saw as wrong thinking.

  “But ma’am,” he managed to say, “it was only for effect; to heighten the power of her presentation, which, I thought, in all honesty, to be quite...quite good.”

  “I thought it was wonderful!” put in Beatrice, loyally—and loudly.

  Ariana glanced at Mr. Mornay. Instead of finding the warm eyes she loved, she was met with an expression she recognized as being his “tolerant” look—he was merely enduring the proceedings, nothing more.

  Mrs. Gullweather approached with a little bald man who wore spectacles and carried a small, bound leather book in which he was jotting information.

  “I hope you have enjoyed our little entertainment,” she began. “And now we must rely upon your patience a little longer, while we beg you to consider making our orphanage a grateful recipient of the generosity that so distinguishes your class among men.” Ariana wished devoutly that she had the means to be generous, but knew that within her reticule lay a single crown. It was the last of her money which she’d brought from home to London at the start of the season.

  Mr. Mornay had no wish to listen to any flummery, and spoke to the man with the book. “Are you recording donations?” The man looked up, startled to be addressed, but quickly replied, “I am, sir!” He rounded the table to Ariana and Mr. Mornay and waited, pencil poised, ready to enter an amount in his account book.

  Meanwhile Mrs. Bentley offered the woman a few guineas, which she accepted gratefully. Mr. Pellham followed with a bank note of an unknown sum. Beatrice solemnly gave sixpence, and Mr. O’Brien just a little above that, as this unfortunate time of the month always found him in low water.

  Mr. Mornay turned to Ariana. “Why do you not propose the amount?” It was an embarrassing moment, as the topic of money was considered ungenteel. One did not discuss it, as important as it was. She blushed.

  “I dare not think of it.”

  With surprise he asked, leaning in towards her, “Do you not wish to support the place?”

  “I do, of course. I mean to give my last crown.”

  “I’ve no doubt. Keep your crown; but tell me the amount you should like to give if you had the means. Only name it, and it is done.”

  She eyed him uncertainly. His distance-keeping seemed to have fled and he was himself again. He was asking her to make a financial decision for the two of them! Many a woman would have been astounded at it. Perhaps Ariana was astounded for she could only reply, “I think perhaps that you ought to—”

  “No, it must be you. I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for you, and I am certain you will be more generous than I.”

  “But that is what I fear!” She hissed in a whisper. “What if I name a sum that is too high?”

  He smiled. “Name it.”

  “Oh, dear! Very well,” she said, bringing her two hands together in thought. She was enormously pleased to have received that smile from him and it all but made it impossible for her to concentrate.

  “Would...twenty-five pounds per annum be appropriate?”

  He said nothing but turned to the recorder. “Send the bill to my house,” and he went on to give the information necessary while the appreciative clerk scribbled in his book.

  Ariana watched with a spurt of elation. A feeling of unexpected....power. She found herself staring at Mr. Mornay as if realizing his great wealth for the first time.

  “Stop looking at me like that,” he said with amusement. “ʼTis only money.”

  Only money! She knew of widows who lived on little more than what she had just been able to procure for the orphanage. With a few words she had made a difference for the children. Of course it was Phillip’s money, not her own, but had not her aunt told her numerous times that all he had would soon be hers? That Mr. Mornay had offered her everything that was his? Any amount of pin money she wanted? She had never paid the least attention to the thought of sharing in Phillip’s wealth, but suddenly it presented a world of possibilities to her.

  She barely noticed the rest of the proceedings. Only the parade of orphans, waiting to wave and cheer them off, brought her back to the moment. As they pulled away in the coach, she looked at each child in a new way. What if she and Phillip were to—to— start their own Society? There were still hundreds of hungry, cold children on the streets. More orphans than this one asylum could house. As the carriage exited the iron gates of the grounds, Ariana was lost in thoughts and ideas that seemed as if she’d been waiting all her life to have. Thoughts she had never had the means to have before.

  As Mrs. Phillip Mornay she would have the means.

  As Mrs. Phillip Mornay she could do much good.

  Her eyes caressed her silent, handsome future husband. The night of their betrothal he had taken her into his coach and put her upon his lap and they'd kissed. Her heart swelled with love at the memory. She'd clung to his neck, reveling in the comfort of his strong arms about her.

  At the moment he was listening to Beatrice’s absent chatter, or she would have bestowed upon him a most adoring smile.

  All the way home she continued to see visions of the future benefactress to the poor which she would become. The usually deflating scenes of needy children on the streets did not affect her as usual.

  “Soon, soon, my dear children,” she thought, “Mrs. Mornay will come to your aide!” And then her beloved turned his gaze upon her, bringing her inner musings to an abrupt halt. For again there was nothing of warmth in his eyes, nothing of the affection she usually found in them. Would the future Mrs. Mornay be a benefactress to the poor? Did he wish to—to cry off from the wedding? Had he allowed her to name the sum for the orphanage to lessen the blow?

  She would find a way to speak with him privately. Perhaps his distracted behaviour had nothing to do with her. But still she frowned, for if it did not, there was something else on his mind that was troublesome. In either case, she must know. And if he was indeed regretting their betrothal, she would have something to say about it!

  Chapter Two

  Ariana looked at the clothing strewn across her bed which constituted her trousseau. Silks, cottons, taffetas, bombazines, ostrich feathers, ribbons and bonnets—my, it was a colourful lot. Stockings, slippers, chemises, stays, shawls, turbans, handkerchiefs and gloves—more things than she had ever owned in her life. As Harrietta and another maid began folding and packing these specimens of the finest textiles and accessories England could boast, Beatrice entered the room without knocking.

  “May I watch, Ariana? I long to look at your beautiful things!” The younger girl gave a sigh of bliss as she gazed upon the booty. Ariana shook her head, for even though she wore wore costly apparel as if she was born for it, in truth she would be content with less.

  Beatrice, however, thought her elder sister had ca
use for joy that only entering the gates of heaven might equal. Enchanted at the glorious mess, Beatrice picked up a shoe or boot here, a new glove, a brooch or fan, a parasol or shawl. She picked up something else and sputtered out a laugh.

  “Laced drawers!”

  Ariana blushed and snatched them hastily from her hand. “Aunt says Princess Charlotte wears them, so I may also.”

  “Did Aunt Bentley bespeak all of this for you?”

  “Mr. Mornay paid for it, if that's what you mean.” Her future husband had indeed paid for the lot of it, a fact which would have sent more than one haughty brow to its pinnacle, and might have eroded Ariana’s standing in society were it known. But Mrs. Bentley had done her part in taking Ariana shopping and acquiring exactly the items on the list furnished by her betrothed, who was particular about what his future wife would wear.

  To Ariana, the rounds of fittings and measurings all across town seemed endless. From Bond Street to Threadneedle, from Ludgate Hill to Pall Mall to Jermyn, she felt they’d been everywhere. She'd wheedled her aunt into allowing her a quick browse at Hatchard’s, on the condition that she would choose a perfume from Floris’s. Ariana did not care to wear scent, but she agreed to purchase a small vial of the stuff in exchange for the chance to snatch up the second edition of Sense and Sensibility.

  Except for a single trunk of clothing and a few hat boxes, Ariana’s aunt had arranged to have everything else moved to Mr. Mornay’s house in Grosvenor Square. From there it would be sent on to his estate at Aspindon, where they would live following the wedding.

  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.