The Country House Courtship Page 3

  “No, Tristan! You must not challenge him! I cannot have either one of you hurt on my account!”

  “I shall have to, I can see! There’s no other reason for him to marry you now, Anne! You’ve already given him what he most wanted.”

  “That is not true! He loves me!”

  “Love! Little good love is to us now!” Mr. Barton closed his eyes and lifted his hands as if he wanted to wring some sense into her, but he stopped before her, dropped his arms abruptly, and turned away in silent frustration. “I am going to proceed as I planned, only now you will have to accompany me. I cannot leave you in town where your condition will be noted. I’ll put out word that I mean to issue a challenge just as soon as I return to town; only I cannot say why, and everyone shall want to know!”

  She looked at him sadly. “I beg you, do not challenge him!”

  He made a scornful sound. “If I do not, no man will think me honourable. If I do, the matter is bound to come out. You’ve got me blocked at both ends, Anne! Well done!” he said sarcastically. He hit his fist against the side of the sofa and turned his face away from her in disgust.

  In a strong tone, he spoke again. “Where I take you, no one will know you; and no one, even there, can know of your condition. Do you understand?” He paused, looking back to survey her with different eyes. “How long until it will be obvious?”

  “Not for many months. I think…I think my confinement will begin in August.”

  He jumped to his feet and turned on his heel. “Your confinement, dear Anne, will begin much sooner than that. You have made yourself a prisoner of the house, from the day you need to let out your stays; do you understand?”

  She didn’t answer, but slowly agreed, nodding her head. Then, looking up at him she asked, “What favour did you agree to accomplish for the Regent?”

  He looked at her morosely. “Not that it matters now, but he has learned that Lord Malcolm is letting his house to tenants, and will accept monthly terms. As Malcolm is neighbour to Aspindon House, he expects little trouble in renting the place year-round. I am to take the house for a month or two, on the pretext of trying life in the country to see if it suits; while in fact I must ply Mr. Mornay to sound the depth of his intentions concerning the prince. The Paragon has stalled on an offer of a viscountcy, and I am to discover the reasons behind it. ”

  “A viscountcy! My word, why on earth would he?”

  He looked at her gravely. “That is what I am to find out.”

  After a small silence, she asked in a low tone, “So I will go with you?”

  “I have little choice about that, now, do I?”

  His tone made her wince.

  “But as I said, when your condition…worsens…you will retire from society. I will consider the arrangements that must be made at that time; this unfortunate…circumstance must not be discovered. By anyone.” He paused, studying her face. “Does his lordship know?”

  She shook her head. “Not yet.”

  “He’ll know when I’ve issued my ultimatum. Pray God he doesn’t let it out.”

  “Do you think he is such a fool that he would want it known?”

  “Nevertheless, I’m afraid the only thing for it is to take you from London until after the birth of your bastard.”

  “Tristan!”

  Her pained expression softened his a little. But he added, “Let us not talk of it! I’d like as few reminders of your condition as possible, if you don’t mind. I am exceedingly grieved for you, Anne.”

  She studied his face. “You are grieved, but not for me. Let us be honest with each other. You are grieved that I have not married his lordship and become a lady, and you are further in horror that I may jeopardize your new friendship with the prince. Is that not closer to the truth?”

  He almost smiled, but then his look became grave again. “You are my sister. I am grieved.”

  There was silence while they continued to study each other a moment. Then Barton said, “I charge you to not contact his lordship or tell him you are with me. He may discover my whereabouts, but I should prefer it if he did not learn of yours. You are not to be trifled with by him again!”

  “He may call upon us. I told you, he loves me!”

  “Well, we’ll see about that, shan’t we?”

  Three

  Mr. Mornay could present the living at Glendover to whomsoever he chose, when and if it fell vacant. And Glendover was vacant; the last vicar had died unexpectedly two months since, and the Paragon still had not presented the benefice to a new man. He was considering the names of a few; he had held four interviews, and was happy with none of the applicants. He hoped, at first, that the Colonel had a good man to fill the situation, but when he saw the name of Peter O’Brien his face froze for a moment in disbelief. O’Brien! That man had plagued him throughout his courtship with Ariana.

  O’Brien was not intentionally vexatious, but had managed to make a supremely heavy cart for the horse, so to speak. He was, in other words, burdensome. His actions in the past had resulted in Ariana’s abduction, and he had been caught stealing a kiss from her—which Mr. Mornay had almost been in time to prevent, but had instead found his bride-to-be just recovering herself from the man’s grasp. He felt an old stirring of irritation, and when his eye fell upon the date on the letter—5 January—he felt a strong new one. Why in blazes hadn’t the letter reached him sooner?

  It was too late for him to write and prevent the interview. It was 24 February, and O’Brien would be arriving any time—if he had the pluck. (With any luck, he would not.) And imagine if Phillip had not got the news beforehand! He might have received him most ungraciously. In light of the hearty words of commendation from Colonel Sotheby (so the young man had done a stint in the army; that spoke well of him), he decided to make an effort at giving Peter O’Brien a fair chance at the living. Wait, no; that was asking too much. He could not purposely grant the man a place in their parish. He’d be in their lives forever. No one could be expected to be that forgiving! Certainly not he!

  He would make an attempt at peace, however. Let O’Brien prove his mettle, if he could.

  He wondered how Ariana would react when she heard. Just in case the man did not show up, he decided to say nothing to her at present. No sense putting her in mind of the uncomfortable events of the past. It was unfortunate enough that he had to think on them.

  The next day, when Ariana and Phillip joined their guests in the drawing room, Ariana said brightly to her relations, “What do you think?” She took in the sight of her mother and sister on one sofa, both with canvases and needles in hand; her Aunt Royleforst, on an opposite settee beside Miss Bluford, who was helping the lady make out the illustrations in a fashion magazine; and made her announcement: “Mr. Mornay has just this minute got a note by special messenger—there is a curate en route this very moment to apply for the living! I do hope he is suitable! We have been without a vicar these past two months, and have gone to Warwickdon for our services. It is not too inconvenient to go there, only a short drive; but Mr. Hargrove (the vicar at Warwickdon) is very soon to abandon us for a new living he has got!”

  Ariana did not know that the hastily written note which her husband had just received was from Mr. Peter O’Brien. He had wished to inform Mr. Mornay that he was, at that very moment, no more than four or so miles away, and desired to know if he was welcome at Aspindon House. Permission was granted—Mr. Mornay knew the man had travelled from London, and could guess at the trouble it had cost him. If only that deuced letter from the Colonel had arrived when it should have—none of this would be necessary. But he told his wife he was expecting a new candidate for the living, and now entered the room where the ladies were, to join them in waiting. Perhaps the “interview” would go quickly.

  Meanwhile, the women in the room nodded their understanding. “And then you will have no man at all; that won’t do, will it?”

  “Indeed, no. Mr. Mornay and I should have to move to Grosvenor Square simply to attend service!”


  Beatrice gasped. “You will take me with you? It is the perfect opportunity!”

  Ariana took a seat on a wingchair next to the sofa and near the fireplace. “If we go, you are welcome to accompany us,” she said with a smile. Her sister was so eager for a Season! Beatrice returned to her sewing but with a face of triumph. “Oh, splendid! Thank you, Ariana!”

  Mrs. Forsythe’s demeanour was barely patient of this enthusiasm, but she said, “Do not be overhasty. There are always an abundance of curates looking for employment. If this man does not answer the purpose, another will, I am certain. You have only to ask around and you’ll soon have a list of candidates longer than your parish birth registry, I vow!”

  Suddenly Beatrice hoped that the man coming would not be found acceptable. If no one filled the position before Mr. Hargrove took up his new living, the Mornays might remove to their London house! Which meant that she, Beatrice, would join them and live in Grosvenor Square. She had seen the magnificent house at the Square, but not spent more than a night beneath its roof. Just the thought of staying there again sent excitement through her veins.

  “Shall we try to guess at the sort of man our cleric is?” asked Ariana. She had taken up her own bit of needlework—her perpetual project was to knit blankets for the poor, dropping them off in the village whenever she had more than one finished.

  “Shall we all get to see him?” Beatrice asked curiously.

  “I would very much like to, if I may,” put in Mrs. Royleforst.

  “You may all meet him,” answered their host. “It will serve to demonstrate his manners in company,” he added lightly. He almost smiled at the thought. Perhaps there would be some diversion in this after all.

  Beatrice was proud to be among the family in the finely appointed room, with its dazzling furniture and decoration. And her new walking-out dress of green and pink flowered cambric, the finest winter gown that she had ever had the felicity of enjoying, was perfectly suited for receiving company. Never before had Beatrice felt so indulgent, so condescending, so perfectly at ease among such wealth. After all, she was family; the house belonged to her sister’s husband. She was not timidly come to leave flowers for the lady of the manor (as she sometimes did at home), but now she was one of the ladies of the manor. At least she was sure it must appear so to the coming visitor.

  By this time next year, she thought to herself, I shall likely be married to a fine gentleman, and my house, if not quite as elegant as Aspindon, will be richly appointed and pleasing to anyone.

  “Will you play, Beatrice? Shall we try to guess at the sort of man who is on his way?” her mama asked her.

  “By all means!” Beatrice smiled. “This will be diverting.” She loved a good game, but somehow had convinced herself that a calmness of manner was her trademark. She must not be thought of as a flighty young girl who grew excited at the least cause, or gave way to much mirth. Her nature could not be grave, but of a decidedly serious bent. She did, after all, read poetry and novels, and a few (a very few) other books.

  Beatrice saw that everyone was looking at her, and she asked, brightly, “Shall I begin, then?”

  “Yes, do,” said Ariana, noting for the thousandth time how much the girl had grown. She was little Beatrice no longer! Ariana watched affectionately while her sister spoke, taking note of her sturdy eyebrows that matched the hue of her hair and the strong features that hinted at a boldness of character, vivid imagination, and mischievous bent that showed primarily in the sparkle of her hazel green eyes. Since childhood Beatrice had shown a propensity to enjoy social occasions, and Ariana marveled that she had not changed in that respect. She was smiling while she thought on how to characterize the mysterious visitor to come, and Ariana had to allow that when she smiled, Beatrice could be called beautiful. She was at the dawn of womanhood, her elder sister thought. And yet, so young.

  Beatrice thought for a moment longer, and then said, “I think…it will be a man who has long been a curate, and will be hankering to become a vicar.”

  Mrs. Royleforst opined, looking around, “Well, yes, of course, they all do. Perpetual curates! No meaner prison in all Britain for a gentleman!”

  “My dear ma’am,” Ariana hastened to reply. “I should say not. That is, there are many curates who are happily situated—”

  “And twice as many who are well nigh starving,” the older lady added smoothly. “Curates are nothing but gentlemen in a respectable debtor’s prison called the Church. Come, come, Ariana, even you cannot defend our religion in this case; it cannot be. Pluralism, you well know, is a direct result of too many curacies offering such mean stipends as no proper gentleman can live on! I quite sympathize with poor curates, you see.”

  Ariana had to smile. “I can see, and I commend it in you. Indeed, I too feel most strongly for the plight of poor churchmen, you must believe me.”

  Beatrice, meanwhile, growing bored, scrunched up her face and said, “You must let me finish my caricature: I think—he is poor, exceedingly thin, and exceedingly dull in his conversation.” (The others chuckled.) “He will insist upon calling just when you are prepared to dine, will accept your gracious invitation to join you, and will afterward drink port or claret while he bores Mr. Mornay to distraction (She peeked at the dark eyes across the room and was pleased to find them upon her with a look of small amusement.) and refuse to play cards, or dance, or be amiable.” She smiled a little smugly.

  Ariana laughed. “You have painted an ogre! Why is your opinion of a stranger so decidedly gloomy? What is to answer for it, particularly when you have the agreeable Mr. Timmons as your model for a vicar?”

  Mrs. Forsythe asked, “Do you despise the profession?”

  “No!” Beatrice said, looking around innocently. “Only, now I think on it, a man must do very well in the Church if he is to live as a gentleman, as Mrs. Royleforst says. He cannot make his fortune so well as a soldier or military man, having no recourse to the opportunities that war and travel provide.”

  “Opportunites,” said Mr. Mornay, “such as dying at the barrel of a rifle?”

  Beatrice paused and pouted at him. “That was not my meaning, as you well know, sir!” But the humour was not entirely lost upon her and she ended upon a little smile. “I grant it is a safer profession; but many a man has been made by his military service, while many a parson must scrounge and take on more parishes than he can handle, merely to get by.”

  “It is a grave injustice,” said Ariana, “but no reason to assume our cleric must be morose.”

  Beatrice, nonplussed, said, “I thought you desired an ogre—someone we could laugh at.”

  “What do we know of this man, truly?” asked Mrs. Forsythe. “Is he coming by recommendation? I am certain Mr. Timmons could advise you where to find a good man, sir, (this to Mr. Mornay) if you are in need of help in that regard.”

  Mr. Mornay spoke up. “He comes highly recommended. He would not be coming at all, however, I assure you, except that the letter recommending him was delayed. Lost in the mail, no doubt, so that I only received it yesterday. But he is wasting his time.”

  Ariana was surprised. “Have you presented the living to someone else?”

  Her husband met her eyes. “Without your knowing of it? No.”

  “But you said he is wasting his time. And that he would not be coming if you had notice. What are we to make of that?” she asked, curious at his mysterious air.

  “When the man arrives, you will understand me.”

  “We do need a vicar at Glendover,” she reminded him. “The people all feel the absence of poor Mr. Applegate.”

  “The people are managing to get themselves to Warwickdon. ’Tis but two miles, and their spiritual needs are being met thus. I should like to fill the position with a man of my choosing, if you must know.”

  “But of course you will choose the man. Only you can, my darling.” Her face registered a momentary discomfort as she recalled that they were not alone—it was vexing to feel they must a
ddress each other formally in the presence of guests. Calling Phillip “my darling,” was her habit—not easy to alter on demand. “But I do think you must give this man—whatever you know of him—a fair trial of your scrutiny; for the Colonel’s sake, if not his own.”

  “Do you have aught against the Colonel?” asked Mrs. Forsythe. “For what reason are you so decided in your opinion against the man he recommends?”

  “It has nothing to do with the Colonel,” he answered.

  “What is the curate’s name?” asked Beatrice.

  “Yes, give us the name, Phillip!” added Mrs. Royleforst.

  “Yes, the name!” echoed her minion, nodding her skinny head. She liked to be included in as much of genteel society as possible.

  “Perhaps we can conjecture better upon his character if we hear his name.” Ariana looked at her husband. They all looked at him.

  “Ariana, do you not know it?” asked her mama, a little surprised.

  “Actually, no, Mr. Mornay has not told me.” She looked back at her husband. “You evidently know the man, or something of him. Is this not so?”

  “I could never forget it, I assure you. But since he is expected any minute, I think I shall leave it to him to make himself known to you. ”

  Beatrice said, “You can never forget it? It must be singular, somehow!”

  “I should say!” cried Mrs. Royleforst. “If you indeed know this fellow, Phillip, ought you not to tell us what you know? Should we be on our guard? Something is afoot in this business, I can smell it.”

  He merely gave that maddening half-smile, so Ariana said, “Never mind, let us devise our own little name for the ogre, then.” She paused and fell to thinking, and then looked up with a rapturous expression for a second. In the next moment, however, her face fell again. “Oh, I can think of nothing. Beatrice, do you have something?”

  To everyone’s surprise, not least of all Mrs. Royleforst, her companion, Miss Bluford spoke up. “I—I think I can, if I may be allowed—”