Chapter Seventeen
Mrs. Royleforst finally made her public entrance among the guests after taking breakfast in her room and spending much of the day abed. Her “topsy-turvy” was gone, and she felt much restored, she said. In fact, she was ready for conversation.
Miss Forsythe, though rosy-cheeked and glowing, seemed downcast and untalkative. Mr. Barton was full of witticisms and good manners, however, and even Miss Barton seemed at peace on this day, as though she had resolved some nagging, pressing issue.
Mr. O’Brien, coming in from the outdoors with frosted cheeks and nose, rubbed his hands together and then spread them out over the fire.
“Mr. Barton, you are more jovial than even your usual jovial self,” observed Mrs. Royleforst.
“Ah, you are observant, ma’am,” Mr. Barton replied, with a bow of acknowledgement. “I am pleased that I was able to be of service to our Miss Forsythe just now.”
Beatrice said nothing, especially since she was watching Mr. O’Brien cautiously. She must soon let him know how important it was to keep to the story she and Mr. Barton had agreed upon.
“And how were you of service?” Mrs. Royleforst wished to know.
“I rescued a damsel in distress!” he said, with his usual aplomb, and with a pointed glance at O’Brien, who was listening.
“Rescued?” Her little black eyes, which seemed to be perpetually red-rimmed, grew wide—as wide as they were capable of getting. “Tell me everything!” she cried. “What happened? Is that why the house was deserted? When Miss Bluford and I came down earlier, we could not so much as locate a footman! No butler! Nary a housemaid! I said to my companion, “Miss Bluford, it appears that this house has gone deserted! We are abandoned!”
Miss Bluford was already nodding her head in earnest agreement. “Indeed!”
“We could hardly get a cup of Bohea, much less a bite of refreshment,” she added. “At Aspindon!”
Mr. O’Brien said, with a glance at Beatrice (who seemed unaccountably alarmed, he thought) “I can tell you what happened. Nothing exciting, I’m afraid.”
Beatrice continued to stare at him apprehensively.
“Yes?” said Mrs. Royleforst.
Mr. O’Brien continued slowly, keeping half an eye on the young woman, “Miss Forsythe was getting her exercise, and I offered to escort her.”
“Taking a constitutional, I imagine?” asked Mrs. Royleforst.
“Yes, ma’am.
“So the two of you walked—alone?”
“We were together, ma’am.”
“Just the two of you?”
“Yes, just the two of us,” he said, very deliberately, as if anyone who dared to challenge the propriety of it must needs answer for it. Beatrice’s heart pounded. It was all going to come out, she knew it! She looked with a panicked expression to Mr. Barton, who was waiting for his moment to take over the story, watching with as much interest as Beatrice.
Mrs. Royleforst started to take a sip of tea, but stopped in mid-air. “Where did you walk to, alone, just the two of you?
“We saw Glendover, ma’am,” Beatrice put in. She could not stand to be silent a moment longer, for fear that Mr. O’Brien would spill the whole business.
“What? Impossible! Not on foot, in this cold!” Her teacup was hastily returned to its saucer, causing a small amount of liquid to splosh on her gown, as she was holding it on her lap. Miss Bluford instantly produced a handkerchief and came to her mistress’s aid, while the lady, ignoring her companion, said, “I am all astonishment!” and cast a sly look at first Beatrice, and then the cleric, who had taken on a look of concern.
Odd, he thought, that both Mr. Mornay and Mrs. Royleforst had found it hard to believe they’d been to Glendover. Could he and Beatrice have found a short cut to the place? But no, it was a well-worn path. Why was it hard for them to believe they might have walked the mile or so to the cottage? And what was Beatrice about, anyway?
Before anything more could be said, Mrs. Forsythe came into the drawing room and just stood, looking at everyone for a moment. She had been apprised of her daughter’s safe return, and would be curious to discover the details regarding the event—later. But she trusted that the gentleman had indeed acted a gentleman throughout the ordeal, and Beatrice’s demeanor did not upset that thought.
Beatrice, meanwhile, felt her heart jump into her throat, the moment she saw her mother’s face. “What is it, Mamma!”
First, she looked at Mrs. Royleforst. “I gave my express leave for Mr. O’Brien to accompany my daughter, ma’am. He is an old family friend, and we trust him implicitly.”
Mr. Barton’s eyes narrowed; he did not like to hear praise of his competition.
Mr. O’Brien, meanwhile, could almost have stood a little taller. He was grateful for those kind words.
Beatrice sighed with relief.
Mrs. Forsythe turned to the whole room. “There is a sick child on the estate; her mother was quite distraught. I beg each of you to think of her when you say your prayers this night.”
Mrs. Forsythe had located Frederick and instructed him to send for the doctor apace. He was to see that the man went directly to the Taller cottage. She came into the room and sat down, but asked a maid to fetch her a cup of China tea.
Mrs. Royleforst thought she had given this interruption enough time. “Well, I can allow that you had permission, but now you must relate your adventure in full,” she said, putting her eyes upon Beatrice.
Beatrice turned imploring eyes to Mr. O’Brien who cleared his throat, forming his next words with care. But he never got to share them. At that moment, Mr. Mornay burst through the door, and the look upon his face had the effect of silencing the very thoughts of each member inside it.
He stood for a moment, surveying them. He still wore his outdoor clothes except for his hat. But the fact that he had on his overcoat and gloves, and his face, ruddy from the cold, made them all aware, even before he spoke, that he had something of moment to impart.
“The sickness upon the estate is the fever,” he said.
There was a collective gasp. Miss Barton’s hands circled her middle. Beatrice just stared, blinking. Mr. Mornay wore an odd, disquieting look. In a low voice, Mrs. Forsythe asked, “What is it, Phillip?” She knew there was more, something more that kept him standing in the doorway with that eerie look about him. She dreaded to hear him say that the girl had died. When he hesitated, she said, “I had your butler send for Mr. Speckman, who is to go to the cottage directly.”
“He must stop here first and see Ariana.”
The room went deathly quiet. Mrs. Royleforst found her voice, first. “Why should he see Ariana?” It was a statement of dread more than a question. He looked at his aunt.
“The child’s mother also has the fever and she had contact with my wife. We will have to wait and see if Ariana has contracted the illness. In the meantime, pray for her. And for all our tenants.” He bowed lightly, and said, “I will go to my wife.”
“I don’t understand, sir,” Mr. Barton said hurriedly, stopping him before he could leave. “How did your wife become exposed?” Mr. Mornay thought for a moment, and his eyes fell on Ariana’s mother. “Mrs. Forsythe will explain.” She nodded her head in obedience, and he left the room.
Mrs. Forsythe said in a quiet, grave tone, “We were out walking, hoping to come upon Beatrice and Mr. O’Brien.”
Beatrice covered her hand with her mouth. Could it be that her sister was exposed to disease on her account? What a dreadful thought!
“We saw Mrs. Taller hurrying toward us, calling for Ariana, for Mrs. Mornay, that is.” She stopped to glance at her listeners, all of whom were paying rapt attention. Staring ahead then as if at nothing, she said, “When Ariana reached her, the lady threw herself upon her, sobbing so that you’d think someone must have—” but the next word was not uttered.
“Oh, my!” said Miss Barton.
“My word!” said Mrs. Royleforst, taking a heavy breath and expelling it in a deep sigh.
Beatrice stared down at her lap, ready to cry.
The story continued to unfold. “Neither of us thought of any illness; and she was so distraught, poor woman, that it took some time to make her errand known! She told us of her daughter’s condition, and begged for Ariana—Mrs. Mornay, that is—to come home with her and pray for the child, whose name, I believe, is MaryAnn.”
Mr. O’Brien could not help himself. “She did not accompany her?”
Mrs. Forsythe met his eyes. “She would have, but I reminded her of the children. Little Miranda is most at risk, as I’m sure you’ll all agree.”
“Yes, of course,” Miss Barton spoke feelingly. Her face froze as she contemplated the horror of the idea of the little cherub falling ill.
Miss Bluford crossed herself. Although she was a Protestant, it seemed like the moment for such a thing.
Mrs. Forsythe picked up her story: “I left to send for Mr. Speckman, but I looked back once and saw that lady throwing herself upon Ariana’s mercy; clinging to her legs and dress!”
Sighs and murmurs went about the room.
Mr. O’Brien said, “Where is Mrs. Mornay now?”
Mrs. Royleforst replied, “I am sure she has gone to change her clothing; it must be washed or discarded, directly!”
The adventure of Beatrice and Mr. O’Brien was now wholly forgotten, as each occupant of the room digested this disturbing development.
“I daresay we should all avoid any contact with the villagers and certainly the tenants of this property,” said Mrs. Royleforst. The others were mute, but no one disagreed.
Mrs. Forsythe came to her feet. “I must confess—” She paused and seemed at a loss for a moment. “I have lost my appetite for company.” She looked regretfully around the room. “I beg your pardon; I pray you will excuse me.” And with an air of suppressed grief, she strode from the room, hardly giving the gentlemen time to bow her off.
“Poor woman,” murmured Mrs. Royleforst. “We must all hope for the best.”
Beatrice, now sitting at the edge of her seat, could only heave a great, sorrowful, sigh. She looked at Mr. O’Brien. “What do you think? Is this my fault? Ariana was out walking to look for me!”
Peterʼs heart swelled because she had turned to him for succor, not Mr. Barton. She was fetchingly pretty in her distress. He quickly went to her. “Mrs. Mornay knew that others were already in search of us. And, even if our absence was the reason for her excursion,” he said, gently, “you cannot take the blame upon yourself only. I am the gentleman, and older than you, and at fault for allowing us to remain at large for so long a period. I should have anticipated the anxiety which would be felt at your absence.”
“You, Miss Forsythe, are certainly not to blame.” Mr. Barton was determined to offer her comfort as well. “The only person at fault is that deuced woman, Mrs. Taller!”
“Tristan!” said his sister. “You are not at one of your gentlemen’s clubs, to say such things. You are in the presence of ladies, sir!”
“I beg your pardon,” he allowed, with an impatient air. “But she had the gall to approach her mistress while sick! To throw herself upon her betters! ‘Tis unconscionable!” These words went unchallenged, for he did seem to have a point. But when he quietly added, “She ought to be brought to the magistrate—if she doesn’t die, first.”
Beatrice gasped.
“Barton!” Anne cried. “How can you be so unfeeling! When Miss Forsythe’s sister may be—when Miss Forsythe is already quite upset at the whole business?”
No one bothered to mention that Mr. Mornay was the acting magistrate in the district—it was neither here nor there.
Mr. O’Brien sent a quelling look at Mr. Barton.
Beatrice’s throat had gone dry. She came to her feet. With a mere, “I beg your pardon!” she rushed from the room too quickly for either man to stand and bow. Mr. Barton saw the result of his speech, and after a moment’s hesitation—for he knew himself at fault—he finally said, “Excuse me,” and went in pursuit of her.
Mr. O’Brien considered whether to dash after him. Mr. Barton was thoughtless, and might well make Beatrice feel worse. As if reading his mind, Miss Barton said, “He means no harm, you know. Tristan just doesn’t seem to…anticipate the effect of his words upon others.”
“Well, that is a deep failing, I daresay,” said Mrs. Royleforst. “If a man cannot speak but what is injurious to others, he shall all his lifetime be rushing after people to apologize! He must learn to control his tongue!”
Mr. O’Brien glanced at the empty seat, and then at the doorway. He was itching to follow the man. The man who would no doubt catch Miss Forsythe off alone somewhere. That did it—with that thought he was on his feet. He met the eyes of Mrs. Royleforst, who nodded at him, as though she knew precisely what he had on his mind. It gave wings to the thought, and he instantly headed from the room.
“Miss Forsythe! Wait, I beg you!” Barton’s voice stopped Beatrice in the corridor, where she was hurrying toward her bedchamber. She tried to compose herself. She raised her skirt to wipe tear-streaked eyes and waited for him to reach her—though she did not relish the meeting.
He came and bowed elaborately, saying, “I am an oaf, a cad, and an addle-pate! I am here to offer you the opportunity to tell me so, yourself, my dear Miss Forsythe. I am at your service and your command. Tell me to go and drown myself, and I will, I avow it, I will do it!” She had to glance at him through her wet lashes, and smile just a little.
“You do not deserve to drown,” she had to admit.
“What then? Only say what my punishment shall be, and it is done! I am at your mercy, Miss Forsythe.” When she said nothing, he added, watching her closely, “And I must say, there is not another living creature whose mercy I should prefer to cast myself upon.”
She looked away quickly, as this sort of flirtatious statement was not something she was accustomed to hearing. A blush crept into her cheeks, but she was intrigued and delighted by the pretty words.
Mr. Barton saw his chance. If he was to marry into this family, then Beatrice must become his wife; so he added “I should, in fact, be quite curious to know if I may cast my future upon your mercy, as well.”
This was just cryptic enough to make her eye him curiously. His future? What could he mean? It couldn’t be—but no, that was absurd. They’d only met days earlier.
“I wish very much to pay my addresses to you, Miss Forsythe. Beatrice. If I might be so bold?” He had inched closer, and his voice went down a notch.
Beatrice was utterly amazed—did men usually declare their intentions so quickly after forming a new acquaintance? She was not displeased. Yet, she felt cautious. Mr. Barton was an entertaining fellow, dashing in appearance, amusing and agreeable. He had to be in possession of a good fortune, for he was neighbour to the Mornays, he dressed fashionably and he could buy the Manor House if he pleased. He also lived in London. She thought of all these things in swift succession, and then slowly said, “Yes?”
With a surge of elation—she was not averse to him!—he bent his head and landed an unexpected kiss upon her lips. It lasted only a second, and he seemed quite as surprised as did Beatrice by it. But she said, rather wide-eyed, “You must speak to Mr. Mornay! Or my mother!”
And then she saw that Mr. O’Brien was only a foot or so away, and she gasped in surprise.
Mr. O’Brien had not meant to sneak up on them, but the corridor was lined with carpets, keeping his footsteps quiet.
Beatrice turned on her heel, mortified, and blushing furiously. She strode quickly away, making Mr. Barton call after her, “I beg your pardon, Miss Forsythe!”
Beatrice winced at his words. Flustered, she forgot about Ariana for the moment. All she could think about was that Mr. O’Brien—who had been so pleasant and gentle that morning and rescued her freezing feet, had seen that kiss—oh! Her heart filled with frustration. It was too unfair! She hadn’t meant to allow Mr. Barton to kiss her!
This day was indeed a day of disaster! When she reached her bedchamber, (after opening the doors of two others which were not hers, proving how distraught she was), she fell upon her bed and shed a few tears.
Had Mr. Barton really meant that he wished to marry her? How could he? And yet, what Mr. O’Brien had seen! Could she ever forget it? Only, when she remembered it very carefully, she had to confess that it had not been entirely unpleasant, being kissed. But she ought not to be happy about that. It was not proper to allow a gentleman to kiss her.
To think that Mr. Barton had been forming serious thoughts of courting her! She remembered suddenly her words to Ariana that she was determined not to even consider a man until she had gone to London for a Season. And now here she was with thoughts of not one, but two gentlemen—both turning her head. Was not Mr. Barton just the sort of man she had envisioned meeting in London? And then she thought about Mr. O’Brien. He was not at all the sort of man she dreamed of meeting or marrying. But the thought of his feelings being injured by her was oppressive.
The first order of business, she decided, would be to inform Mr. O’Brien of Mr. Barton’s honourable intentions. When he understood how things were, she was sure he would judge her less harshly. He was possibly the most understanding gentleman of her acquaintance. She found her prayer book and opened it, but ended up with dark musings for some minutes while she lay there upon her bed in her walking-out dress.
Her thoughts fell upon her sister, and her sense of misgiving returned forcefully. But Ariana was not actually sick. They had no reason to believe that she must get the fever. Only time would tell. In the meantime, she would do her duty, and pray—and keep her distance from both gentlemen, until she sorted out her feelings.