The Country House Courtship Page 5

  The tea cups were filled, and soon the room fell silent while everyone sipped tea or ate a sweet biscuit. Mr. Mornay had now opted to sit beside his wife. Miss Bluford scurried to get her mistress just the right assortment of biscuits that she liked; Beatrice ate hastily, hoping to fortify herself somehow with the victuals. Mr. O’Brien ate little, as though just to be polite.

  Ariana asked, “Why do you not tell us about these past years? Where have you been situated? How has life treated you? Will this be your first vicarage? I can still hardly comprehend that you are to be our very own parson! I am—”

  Mr. Mornay cleared his throat. When she looked to him, he said, “Mr. O’Brien is come only to explore the opportunity of this living—as we must consider whether he will fit our idea of what we must have in a vicar. We, both of us, must find it fitting, before anything is settled.”

  Ariana thought she could tell by his tone and eye that he meant not to approve of the man. Surely that was his meaning in saying such a thing. She was disappointed, for it had seemed so providential and comfortable an arrangement, having Mr. O’Brien here to fill the vacancy. Only, of course, her husband would not want it to be so. He had never felt the slightest regard for Mr. O’Brien, and, to the contrary, had used to call him “that endless pest.” She would talk with him about the matter when they were alone; but for now, she turned a bright smile to the cleric and said, in her best hostess voice, “So—tell us what you have done since 1813.”

  Mr. O’Brien also understood Mr. Mornay’s meaning as boding nothing good for him. Why had the man allowed him to come? Why had he not prevented the whole affair by means of letters? He was irked that it was happening so. That he had been put to the trouble and expense of this call when it was going to end as he feared. He would soon be back at St. Pancras’s parish, as though the whole interview, the travel, the expenses, had never occurred. But he had no time to dwell further upon the subject. Mrs. Mornay had addressed him with a question.

  He answered as best he could, briefly detailing his short stint in the army—with a look of significance to Mr. Mornay that no one but the two men understood the meaning of. Mr. O’Brien explained how he had received a sum anonymously, of sufficient size to purchase a commission.

  “Anonomously?” asked Mrs Royleforst with astonishment.

  “Yes.” A short silence commenced, and so he continued his tale. How, during his first field assignment, he had injured his left arm during an action at Vera (in Spain, he explained) while defending the Bridge over the Bidassoa. It was a key structure and the French did lose it in the end; but 850 British soldiers were wounded or killed, and Mr. O’Brien was one of them. (He assured the room that over 1500 French casualties had been suffered, which was sufficient to underscore the English victory, and brought relief upon the faces of his audience.)

  Since the bullet had narrowly missed a vital artery—which would have cost him his arm, if not his life, said the medical officer—Mr. O’Brien had been forced to consider his time on earth in a new way. His narrow escape from death made him reconsider his motives. He had joined the army to avoid dwelling on pain (spoken carefully and without a glance in Ariana’s direction), and yet it had brought only more of it into his life. Besides his own injury, he had witnessed death and brutality on the battlefield as he hoped never to lay eyes upon in this world again.

  “By contrast,” he finished, “even St. Pancras’s parish seems tame in comparison.”

  They all nodded.

  “That is my parish, you know; I am curate there.”

  “At St. Pancras?” Ariana asked. A flash of concern went through her. What a difficult place for a sensitive soul!

  “Yes, ma’am. My injury was the thing that brought my attention back to God and the Church. It is my calling, and I had shirked it.” He related how he subsequently sold his commission, and in six months’ time had taken Holy Orders. A year after that he accepted the curacy at St. Pancras and had been there ever since. At Christmas past, his old friend Colonel Sotheby had sought him out, seen his condition, and vowed to do something for him.

  “What was your condition, Mr. O’Brien, if you do not mind telling us?” Mrs. Forsythe asked gently; and soon the whole room was rapt, listening to tales of Mr. O’Brien having to go to his family’s home on Blandford Street to eat a proper meal, as he had given his own away; of finding the most sorrowful pieces of humanity upon the parsonage doorstep, only to have nothing to offer them but water and an old cheese. It was an underprivileged area, and many a sad sight had he seen on the streets; many a sad plight (he said with a deep sigh) that he was unable to do anything for, other than pray. Even now, at the memory of how helpless he had been to help others, his hands balled into fists, though he had nowhere to lay blame unless he desired to take on the structure of the Church, and the reason why so many curates were underprovided for.

  When they asked for particular stories regarding St. Pancras, he said, “I fear I have said too much already.” To the chorus of objections which ensued, he added, “Were I to give you further details it would reflect poorly upon me as a gentleman; for ladies are not suited for such that I could tell, I assure you.”

  “Oh, do, I beseech you, Mr. O’Brien!” Beatrice had been listening with such a piqued interest that she had wholly forgot her earlier embarrassment. She tried not to reveal the least surprise at her own outburst, however, and noted that he eyed her appreciatively. Mrs. Forsythe added, “We are not the swooning type of females, sir, and we understand the evils of this world well enough.” With a glance at Beatrice, she added, wryly, “I daresay the right tale from you may even prevail upon my daughter Miss Forsythe not to pine after a Season in London, yet.”

  “Oh, Mama!” Beatrice said, blushing. Why was she embarrassed? It was perfectly understandable that a young lady should desire a coming-out in London. But she added, “I am not pining!”

  “My opinion, sir,” said the mother, “is that Miss Forsythe is too young for that pleasure; she is but seventeen.” To Beatrice she added, “We’ll speak more of it later.”

  I wish you had not spoken of it at all, Beatrice thought. No need to tell a stranger—well, he was virtually a stranger, for it had been so long—about her hopes or plans.

  Ariana rescued her from further embarrassment by turning back to the newest guest. “Tell us more of your experiences, if you please.”

  O’Brien sought the eye of Mr. Mornay, who nodded almost imperceptibly, but it was enough. Mr. O’Brien obliged them. He told of females who were mothers before they themselves had left girlhood; of men who were so lost upon that demon gin, that they spent every last shilling upon it, and slept in beds of garbage and filth. These same men had children and wives, but left them to fend for themselves. He told how children of three years of age and older were taught to pick pockets and nap handkerchiefs so their mothers could sell them to buy food. Abandoned women, mothers with no husbands, and children with no parents at all; infants left on the church doorsteps. It was appallingly sorrowful.

  The company listened with great silence. Mr. O’Brien’s steady, low tones brought the hardships of the London poor to such poignant light that even Mr. Mornay forgot that he disliked the man, and Beatrice forgot to feel wary of him. The tea in her cup grew cold; she never did reach for more biscuits. Only Mrs. Royleforst, though enraptured with interest at the images and scenes he conjured in his tales, kept slowly eating her plate of baked treats until it was emptied.

  Beatrice was intrigued by the depth of feeling within the eyes of Mr. O’Brien. His voice was tender and yet full of pity, or grief, or anger, at the things he had seen. The earnest blue of his eyes became like a magnet to hers, and she could not be oblivious to his deep wish to be of help to such people as were in his parish; she began to feel the injustices of life for the poor in a new way. His points of outrage at society in allowing the existence of such hubs of sin and evil were so deeply experienced that his gentle voice was like the sharpest hammer, piercing to her soul. Ariana was
no less affected, and held one hand over her heart as she listened.

  Mr. Mornay took his wife’s hand, knowing precisely what kind of thoughts she was no doubt entertaining. She, who had always wanted to do much for the poor, but had been content to give herself to her family and the village of Glendover.

  “In short,” Mr. O’Brien said, “the people of St. Pancras are starving, and yet they do not seek a life elsewhere, but remain in their little rat nests—forgive my language, but I have seen these places—and continue to live by thievery and whoredom. I think I have aged a decade in these past few years, not only on account of my time in battle at war, but in these constant battles against evil here at home. I am too young, or, I daresay, too witless (with a smile) to devise any answer for the great need of the poor of St. Pancras, and as a curate I am virtually useless except in my capacity to pray and give sermons.”

  Could this account for his dark hair? Beatrice wondered. Did not people usually turn grey, or white, as a result of great difficulties? Perhaps; but Mr. O’Brien had turned brunette, strange as it seemed. Again she noticed that the change suited him quite well. It was too bad that he was not a man of independent means. As a curate, he was not the type of man (she knew in her heart) that she must marry. She felt a pang of unrest with the thought, but brushed it aside.

  No unsuitable man would make her turn her head, not even an impressive curate with a heart of gold! She was determined to have her day in the upper-class society of the Season, and to see what would come of that. There had to be gentlemen aplenty there, and Mr. O’Brien was not the only man in the world with beautiful blue eyes and a big heart.

  I may be young, she thought, but I am no longer the child who would marry the first eligible young man she met just because he wanted a cure for being lovesick! Mr. O’Brien had been utterly deflated in spirit upon losing Ariana to Mr. Mornay, and Beatrice had felt sorry for him. Now she was older and wiser. Now she understood life far better. And besides, he no longer seemed the least bit sick from love.

  Five

  Ariana was feeling a great heartache. Had not she herself wanted to turn her hand to helping the poor of London?

  She and Phillip had been so happy raising their own little family that thoughts of the plight of the city’s poor had utterly fled from her mind. It had been too, too long since she’d even considered it. Phillip had agreed to support many a city institution, and they had been faithfully contributing their help since; but still she suddenly felt far removed from it all. It did not seem enough—writing a cheque or sending a bank note. Such was not a sacrifice for them. It was nothing like being there firsthand as Mr. O’Brien was.

  What a good, good thing it was that God had sent Mr. O’Brien! It was reawakening her heart to things she must do. Things such as reacquainting herself with the efforts of the latest societies and organizations that toiled on behalf of the poor. A trip to London could help immensely in that; there was nothing like visiting personally to know whether an institute or school was worthy of their funds, for instance. Someday, she dreamed, she would like to get involved in a practical way. Knitting blankets was too antiseptic: she wanted to get her hands dirty in the work, so to speak!

  Like most women whose husbands owned a large estate, she had no hand in the financial doings regarding it. Other than informing their man of business when she wanted to support a charity (who, in turn, would clear it with Phillip, she knew) she did not even have a hand in charitable giving.

  With difficulty, she turned her mind back to Mr. O’Brien, who was saying, “The devil of it is, if I were as wealthy as, well, as you are, sir (and here he turned to Mr. Mornay), it would only help for a short period of time! These people are not trained to look after themselves; they do not know the least thing about homesteading, or simple gardening—those who have a small plot of land, that is. Most do not. But it is appallingly—mad—their manner of life!” He stopped, catching himself giving way to helpless anger.

  The women were eyeing him sorrowfully, with understanding. Ariana looked ready to cry, and Beatrice was heart-stricken. Mr. O’Brien collected himself; he knew he had made his point, and now felt almost apologetic.

  “Mr. O’Brien,” said Ariana, preventing that apology from coming. Her large, pretty eyes, somewhat watery at the moment, peered up at him. “I pray you will dine with us. You have nothing prepared elsewhere, I hope?”

  “I believe I passed a respectable-looking inn some miles back, and was going to return to it for my supper, ma’am.”

  “Oh, do not think of it!” she replied. “You will eat your meal with us.”

  “Your offer is very kind,” he said with utter sincerity. He seemed to have found a much more agreeable reception than he had hoped for, and he was startled, but pleased.

  As mistress of Aspindon House, Ariana delighted in any benevolent action she might take. She was not cognizant that her husband was standing now with his back to the room, and staring out at the prospect as though he had never seen it before.

  The maids began cleaning up the tea dishes, and Ariana said, “Mama, why do not you and Beatrice accompany Mr. O’Brien for a walk about the house while Mrs. Perler and I see to the children?”

  “The children?” asked the cleric. His eyes had come alight. “I beg your pardon, I had completely forgotten! Allow me to offer my deepest congratulations. I understand you have just recently welcomed a new little miss into the household!” Even Mr. Mornay turned around for this, for he, like his wife, was inordinately proud of his offspring.

  “Yes, our baby Miranda; I thank you,” said Ariana, smiling with pleasure. “Our little boy, Nigel, is four; and our little girl, Miranda, is just two months.”

  “Two months! My word, you are just out of your confinement! I do hope I shall have the pleasure of an introduction,” he said in a droll tone.

  All the women were smiling. “But of course!” Ariana said. “You could hardly avoid it in this household, sir, for we allow our children a great deal of time with us.”

  Tristan Barton sat across from his sister in the morning room of the Manor House, while he finished his coffee and toast. Miss Barton was morosely stirring her chocolate, absentmindedly.

  “Now we are settled,” he said, “I should like to call upon Mr. Mornay. It’s deuces there’s naught else to do around here, in the country!” he snorted with derision. “However can anyone prefer it?”

  Miss Barton raised her head enough to cast a glance out a window of the room, which overlooked the frontage of the estate. “I think it’s lovely country,” she said. “And not even that far from Town.”

  “Half a day’s drive, you mean!” he returned. “Quite far enough. In any case, I’ll have to take the carriage, but I do not imagine you were planning on using it. You look ill, in fact. Are you unwell?” His eyes had narrowed sharply upon really seeing her face.

  “I am fine,” she answered, looking down for a second.

  When she did look up, he said, “But you are certainly not in your looks. I want you to rest while I am out.” Anne’s eyes had darkish circles, as though she had not been sleeping well, or felt ill.

  “Tristan?” Her voice was low, and she paused, looking flustered.

  “Yes?”

  “You—you shan’t forget to tell them your sister is with you?”

  He grimaced. “I told you I mean to introduce you. I’ve decided that you can be of use to me, in fact. You will keep Mrs. Mornay in company, so that I may hope to get more of the mister to myself. I am determined to do my service for the prince as speedily as possible. It may be that I can procure some good for us from this before any…detrimental reports may reach the ears of His Royal Highness.”

  He was standing now, brushing off his coat, and he asked, “How do I look, eh?”

  She glanced over him. “I do think breeches are formal for a morning call.”

  “This is Mornay I’m seeing, Anne! Can anything be too formal for such a man?”

  “When meeting him with the prin
ce, or at an affair, I suppose not; but here in the country?”

  “I wouldn’t be at all surprised if he keeps to London styles, country or no; I mean to be prepared.”

  “You will seem to be striving for their approval.”

  “But I am. I must have their approval, or my chances of doing anything for the prince are dashed.”

  “But do you not want to seem more confident? As though you have no reason not to be approved of? You should allow your good manners to speak for you. Not your attire.”

  He went up to her and stroked her cheek. Miss Barton was surprised, but pleased. He looked at her almost pityingly, however, and said, “Anne, Anne. If you knew how to dress properly for the right company, I might even now be addressing you as ‘my lady.’ You failed to impress his lordship’s family, do you not see?”

  “You do not know the least thing about it!” she cried, taking his hand and throwing it from her. She was already in tears. He stopped, a little taken aback by her passionate rebuttal.

  “Do not try to tell me anything about a matter you are entirely ignorant of!”

  “What do you mean?” he demanded. “What am I ignorant of?”

  She turned and glared at him for a moment, silent with anger. “It was your decision to sell our family home that first made them question our respectability!”

  “Yes, but what of Brummell? Do you recall? He sold his estate, and no one questioned his dashed respectability!”

  “Brummell was an Original! And I daresay that the same people who paid him court would shrink from giving him a daughter in marriage! Respectability and good ton are two different things! No one questions whether you are fashionable, or agreeable—but you sold our family house! You threw away our ties to the land! You must know that a family estate means the world to these people! How can you have failed to understand that?” Her voice was cracking, and she could no longer keep herself from sobbing. She rushed from the room.