Chapter Eighteen
Mr. Mornay saw to it that Mr. Speckman examined his wife before going to the Tallers’ cottage. The doctor ordered a hot bath, instructed her husband to see that the clothing she’d worn was discarded or better yet, burned (he wouldn’t normally go to such lengths, but he knew Mornay could afford it, and better safe than sorry). The London fever, he said, spared its newest victims a long wait; if they were exposed and had caught it, it needed only two to five days to reveal itself. In the meantime, Mrs. Mornay’s children must be sent from the house. In fact, he recommended complete separation for her from all members of the family.
“Two to five days! Not to see the children? It’s not possible, sir! That won’t answer, I assure you!” Ariana tried to maintain her composure, but after the encounter with Mrs. Taller and all its accompanying worries, and now this—it was intolerable.
The doctor took a heavy breath and looked to her husband. “It is necessary, I am afraid, if you would ensure the safety of your offspring.”
She started crying then, and Mr. Mornay went to put his hands upon her shoulders, for she was sitting upon a sofa in their bedchamber, while the men were standing. But the doctor said, “Sir, you, too, must stay wide of your wife. For the time being. It won’t be for long.”
Mr. Mornay looked at Mr. Speckman, and then dropped beside his wife and put his arms about her. “It’s too late, sir,” he returned, as Ariana fell against him, sobbing softly. “We have already had contact.”
Mr. Speckman frowned. “As you wish, sir,” he said, on a sigh. “But be sure your house is in order.” For that remark, Mr. Mornay determined then and there to find a new medical man when time allowed. The physician turned to leave, closing up his leather satchel. He hesitated and turned around, and Mr. Mornay looked at him expectantly.
“You will have to stay apart from your children as well, sir.”
Mr. Mornay took a deep breath, which he seemed to need of a sudden; and nodded. Ariana, hearing that, popped her head up.
“Leave me then, but do not abandon the children! They have already lost their mother! You cannot be gone from them as well.” The doctor looked on unhappily. But he said, “Ma’am; if I may? Children are resilient and they will soon forget this episode. I daresay it will be harder for you than for them. I pray you think only of what is best—in the long term—and keep both of you apart from them until I have examined you in six days’ time—”
“Six days? Did you not say five days, earlier?”
“I am in mind of your youngest child, ma’am. At such a young age, babies are subject to very violent illness if exposed. I daresay we must take every precaution.” He turned again to leave. “If in that expanse of days you are still well, the ban is lifted and you are free to smother your children with affection. I’ll return in two days’ time unless you call for me sooner.”
Ariana fell once more against her husband’s shoulder. He tightened his arms about her, and kissed the top of her head. “It will go quickly; all will be well, I expect.”
Ariana pushed him away and sat up. “The baby! I am her nourishment—we must send to the village at once for a wet nurse!”
The doctor turned back upon hearing this and nodded his agreement. “I know of a woman,” he said. “She was delivered only a fortnight ago of a little girl.”
Ariana tried not to even think of the discomfort she would have to endure at the sudden cessation of suckling her child. It was said that an application of ice, a few times a day, for a few days, would teach her body to stop producing mother’s milk. She despaired that she was going to need to test the theory. More tears began to spill from her eyes on that account. Mr. Mornay kissed her forehead but said, “Stay here. I’ll get a message to that wet nurse; and I think I must send our guests on their way.”
“Do you have guests, sir?” the doctor asked. “In that case, they must indeed be sent away. I am sorry to say it, but we can never be too careful in these cases.”
Mr. Speckman followed Mr. Mornay to the drawing room, where still the guests were congregating saving Beatrice and Mrs. Forsythe. Servants were sent to fetch them, while Mr. Mornay entered the room and introduced the physician.
“How does Mrs. Mornay?”
“Is she ill, sir?”
“Is it the fever, sir?”
To this onslaught of questions made in chorus, Mr. Mornay held up a hand. “If you please.” With the ensuing silence he looked about and said, “Mr. Speckman has something to speak of, and I will return to you shortly; hear him out.”
Mr. Speckman cleared his throat while his eyes scanned the room. Mrs. Forsythe appeared in the doorway behind him.
“It is my opinion,” said the doctor, “that each of you must fly from this house at your soonest convenience. There is no saying how much distance is required from one who is ill; we simply do not know. However, if you remove from the house, I think I may safely say that you will not contract an illness from under its roof, even if it is to appear.”
“Does Mrs. Mornay have an illness, then, sir?” Mr. Speckman turned in surprise since the question had come from the concerned mother who was still standing in the doorway behind him.
“And who might you be, madam?”
“I am Mrs. Mornay’s mother.”
He blanched, but said, “Well, there is no way of telling until the time for the sickness to appear has passed. In the meantime if she is harboring the illness, you are all at risk, every moment you spend here.”
“Upon my word!” Mrs. Royleforst cried.
“What of the children and Mr. Mornay, sir?” Mrs. Forsythe asked.
“The children must leave this abode as well. Mr. Mornay chooses to stay with his wife.”
“I should rather stay with her,” said the mother firmly.
“It is too late for that,” said another voice, and Mr. Mornay appeared. He kept back, and added, “Please go into the room, and give me a clear path so that I may speak to you all at some distance.”
Mrs. Forsythe eyed him sorrowfully, but did as he bade. Mr. O’Brien moved from his chair and crossed the room, as did Miss Bluford after seeing his example, so that now all the guests were assembled on one side of the room. Mr. Mornay delicately stepped inside.
“I regret to say that Mr. Speckman’s advice must be followed. I will put up every one of you who needs a room at the nearest inn, or any place of your choosing. I put my children into your care,” he said to Mrs. Forsythe, “only I ask that you keep them here in Middlesex if at all possible. I have already sent servants to fetch a wet nurse for the baby.” He paused, thinking. Everyone’s face was grave. “Where is Miss Forsythe?”
“I believe she retired to her chamber,” said Mr. Barton.
Mr. Mornay fell silent again, but then added, “I apologize for your inconvenience.” Everyone stopped him with instant objections, saying how sorry they all were for his and Mrs. Mornay’s inconvenience.
“If, in five or six days Ariana has not taken ill, you are safe to return, and I must add, very welcome to do so. In fact, it would bring my wife great pleasure if you did.”
“Of course!” Mrs. Forsythe said, bracingly, hoping she was speaking for everyone in the room. They were all quick to agree.
“Phillip,” she added, “She is my daughter; I have tended to her illnesses in the past, and I daresay it is I should stay with her, not you.”
“I have already had a deal of contact with her,” he said, shaking his head. “There is no reason to put you at risk.”
“But think of the children, sir! They will need their father!”
Mr. Speckman said, “Mr. Mornay is right, ma’am; he must keep clear of them.”
“Sir,” she said, to the physician, “will you check on them daily? And give us your findings?”
He hesitated, but said, “Certainly, ma’am. Just tell me where you are stopping, and I will send word.”
“Where are we stopping, indeed?” she asked to the room in general. Miss Barton looked questioningly to her brother, as if to ask, “Shall we invite them to the Manor?” But he shook his head. Anne looked troubled. She felt ashamed to have a house with empty bedchambers, and not offer them.
Mrs. Forsythe had not seen the exchange, and she said, timidly, “Mr. Barton; would it be too great an imposition sir, to ask if you might have room for us for the few days we must wait? Is it possible, sir, if you will forgive my boldness in asking? I am desperate to remain in the neighbourhood, you see.”
Mr. Barton opened his mouth to reply, but for a moment he knew not what to say. Finally, he said, “We lack the servants for so many, ma’am.”
“I can send servants aplenty,” said Mr. Mornay
“We lack the space for so many,” he added, looking around.
“I do not need a room,” said Mr. O’Brien. “I must to London to gather my belongings, and then I shall be settling in at Warwickdon.”
“I can return to London as well,” put in Mrs. Royleforst, reluctantly. She really had no wish to leave the little ones in the sole care of their grandmamma, as she delighted in being part of the family. What an advantage it would give Mrs. Forsythe! The children would learn to adore their grandmamma, and forget all about their Auntie Royleforst!
Mr. Barton saw that he was being backed into a corner—but he had a sudden thought.
“Sir—if I may speak to you privately?” He had addressed Mr. Mornay, who nodded, then said to the others, “Begin to pack what you’ll need; best to take all, I suppose. We’ll iron out where you shall go in the meantime. Except you, Mrs. Forsythe, if I may have a word with you?”
“Certainly, sir.”
“Mr. Barton, I need a moment, if you please, and I’ll speak to you directly.”
“Of course,” he said, with a light bow, and left the room with the others.
Mrs. Forsythe turned to her son-in-law expectantly.
“Have you ascertained yet what kept your daughter and Mr. O’Brien so long from the house earlier?”
“I have,” she said, for she had found her daughter in her bedchamber and got the whole confession. When he waited, she said, “They appear to have walked to your Glendover.”
“I can hardly credit that; in this weather?”
“Beatrice’s feet suffered frostbite so I think we may safely believe it, sir.”
The door opened suddenly just then, and Beatrice rushed into the room. Her expression was evidence that she had already been given the news about their imminent departure.
Mrs. Forsythe held an arm open to her, and Beatrice rushed to her side. “Oh, Mamma! I am to blame in this! If Ariana had not gone looking for me!”
“What happened between you and Mr. O’Brien?”
She stared at her brother-in-law.
“Between—?” Her face was all astonishment. “Nothing, sir!”
“No? Mr. O’Brien tells me you spent some time together—in an empty parsonage.”
Her heart sank. So he already knew about it. “He made a fire so that I could warm myself; my feet in particular.” She added, “He knew exactly how to help me. And that is all he did.” She felt defeated, somehow, that he knew all, but there had been no impropriety. Every touch of Mr. O’Brien’s had been like that of a physician. (Saving for when he had to pull her back from leaving; but that was nothing!) In fact, the thought of what happened, now that her feet no longer hurt, was rather pleasant. He’d been brisk and yet gentle, and so natural and calm that Beatrice had hardly thought of feeling embarrassed until afterwards, though the idea that he had taken her feet in his hands did, at this moment, seem rather scandalous.
“I trusted him like an older brother, sir, and he behaved no differently than one.”
Mr. Mornay looked at her evenly. “You have no older brother to judge by.”
“Yes, sir, I have you.”
Did she see a sparkle of humour in his eye? “There was no question of impropriety, or anything like that. I daresay, I thought nothing of it, perhaps on account of the pain in my feet.” She regarded him with wide eyes. “Why do you question it, sir?”
“You were gone for hours, unchaperoned. It is my duty to question it.”
She sighed with relief. “Well, if that is all, now you know nothing occurred—”
“I would hardly call that nothing,” he replied.
Mrs. Forsythe frowned, and said, “I encouraged them to go.”
He replied, “Not to Glendover. Certainly not to enter a dwelling alone.” He turned to Beatrice. “Learn to be mindful of how your actions must appear to others.”
“No one but Mr. Barton knows we were in the dwelling,” Beatrice said, with passion, “and he is the last person who will wish to make it known—” She stopped abruptly.
He studied her. “Indeed. And why is that?”
She blushed, but spoke quickly. “Mr. Barton wishes to pay his addresses to me. He told me last night; I assured him he must speak to you, or to you, Mamma.”
This was not surprising, but unfortunate. Here he had been ready to put his family into the care of the Bartons at their estate, but this changed his mind. He said, “Let me speak to your mother.”
She curtsied. “Yes, sir.” But she hesitated. “You are not disposed against Mr. Barton for any reason in particular, are you, sir?”
He saw the hope on her face but had to say, “I am disposed to doing what is best, whether it involves a Mr. Barton or not.”
Her mother said, “You are not disposed against Mr. O’Brien for any reason in particular, are you Beatrice?”
Beatrice looked troubled and did not answer immediately. Finally she said, “I like him very well. Only I do not wish to marry him—not that he has asked me to.”
Mr. Mornay said, “Do not take long walks with a gentleman you do not wish to marry!”
She frowned, bobbed a curtsey and left.
He said to her mother, “Beatrice should be sent home until I’ve had a chance to sort through this muddle. I was hoping all my guests might stay at the Manor, but under the circumstances, I think it best to keep more space between your daughter and Mr. Barton. Unfortunately, the same thing holds true concerning Mr. O’Brien.”
Mrs. Forsythe cleared her throat, making him eye her curiously. “I am not averse to encouraging an acquaintance between my daughter and the curate, sir.”
“You and Ariana agree on that, I see.” After an ensuing moment of silence he said, “Well; she is your daughter; I will leave her in your hands. Another hint of scandal between them, however, and they must get a license.”
“Agreed.” She took a breath and then met his eyes sadly. “I will be thinking of Ariana every moment of every day. And of you.”
“Take care of my children, and I am content.”
“We shall! Oh, you know we shall!”
Brighton Pavilion
“Your Royal Highness?”
“Take a letter for me quickly, man.” The Prince Regent winced while his physician continued to poke and prod, but at least the bloodletting was done. For today.
“Busy today, Your Royal Highness,” said the physician, Mr. Watson. “Dictating a letter while your physician examines you.”
“Nothing of national importance, Watson,” he replied dryly. “Have a care there, sir!”
“I need to know if the swelling in your ankles is grown worse, Your Royal Highness.”
The secretary waited patiently, and suddenly the Regent remembered him, “And stop distracting me from my purpose. I want this dashed business over with directly!”
He began dictating to the secretary, “Send word to Mr. Tristan Barton, (you’ll find his direction in your records; he’s in Middlesex, near Aspindon House).”
The man scribbled furiously into a notepad.
“Where was I? Oh, yes; tell him I wish to know what news he has of Mornay; that I’m in mind of having the Lord Chancellor summon him for the presentation of the title; and if there’s to be another dashed postponement of the business, I want the reason for it!” When the secretary still waited he added brusquely, “That’s all, man! Get it sent!”
The Regent was never in good spirits if he needed his physicians, and he had needed them this day for numerous complaints. Since the unhappy passing of his only child Princess Charlotte, the year earlier, the Regent’s health was rarely stable. Despite a great deal of bad press regarding him as a father, her passing had been like an arrow piercing his heart. It was lodged there still, and forever would be, he thought.
Some of the pain of the arrow was indeed the hollow ache of regrets, memories of disputes he had had with her; scenes of keeping her from her mother, Caroline, Princess of Wales, for fear of that lady’s ill-advised influence upon his daughter. But had it been his wish really to protect the girl from her mother? Or just the power of spleen, revenging himself upon his estranged wife by separating her from her only child? It all seemed quite, quite empty of reason, now; all it had served to do was cause unhappiness for Charlotte; and now she was gone, and he could never make it up to her.
With this sorrow upon him, every annoyance of state, every governmental duty was more tiresome than the last. At least if he got Mornay in the House of Lords, it would put another vote in his favour; he had no energy to influence the lords, no energy for most things, in fact. Except when he was at table; yet even his epicurean delights had caught up with him. His ever-widening girth (which the press loved to attack him for), attacks of the gout, and accursed digestive difficulties resulted in the deuced need for frequent bloodletting.
As for Phillip being ennobled, he no longer cared what the lords would make of it, and he’d willingly create a new title—the College of Heralds had already sent Mornay a list of possible usages, and he had only to approve one. They’d studied the Mornay family tree as far back as they could go to create their list of names.
Meanwhile, the Regent’s letter was written up properly, transposed for palace records, and stamped with the Prince’s seal. It went by special messenger to Middlesex.
Tristan Barton was granted a reprieve. After Mr. Mornay emerged from his discussion with Mrs. Forsythe, he quelled the possibility of housing any of his guests at the Manor, using as his reason a desire to keep his relations beneath one roof, if possible. The Manor was not large enough for all of them. Barton hid his relief, but secretly rejoiced. Then, when he finally had Mr. Mornay to himself, he saw the opportunity as one in which to ply the man further on the business for the prince.
“Sir, as you know, my sister and I descended upon this neighbourhood rather suddenly.”
“I’ll grant that.”
“I must come clean to you, sir.”
“Yes?” He little wanted a long conversation at the present time, but this was an offer too intriguing not to pursue. He’d long suspected Barton’s motives and felt here would be the proof.
“I came to this neighbourhood solely on your account; to speak to you on behalf of the Prince Regent.” When Mr. Mornay only made the slightest response, pressing his lips together with a look of mild disgust, he added, “Does that not astonish you?”
“You are an unlikely emissary, but I deduced as much.”
Mr. Barton felt his trump card had been snatched from him, but he continued, “Well, sir, he still asks you to accept the honour of the title and take your seat in the ‘Lords with all haste—for the coming session, you understand.”
Mr. Mornay waved his hand dismissively. “I have no time for that, now. You may tell him I’ll speak with him when next I’m in town.”
Mr. Barton eyed him regretfully. “I do hope, sir, that you will give me leave to speak of this again to you when your wife is recovered.”
“My wife is not ill,” he returned, softly.
“There is one other matter, if I may be so bold.”
Mr. Mornay looked at him knowingly. “Beatrice.”
Mr. Barton’s brows drew together in surprise. “You knew?” He was astonished, because it seemed impossible to him that Mr. Mornay could have construed his feelings regarding Beatrice when he had only so recently determined them himself. How on earth did Mornay surmise them? Dashed if this man wasn’t some sort of mystic! No wonder the prince wanted him in his party.
“Your acquaintance with her is too short for us to discuss anything on this point. And, I must tell you; her future may already be settled.”
Mr. Barton blinked at him. “Are you telling me, sir, that she is betrothed?”
“Not exactly; no.”
This response gave him a new thought and his brows cleared. “Is there reason for which I would not wish to align my name with Miss Forsythe’s? Is that what you allude to?”
Mr. Mornay took a breath. “How could that be the case, sir, when my name is linked to her family’s?” Before Mr. Barton could respond, he added, “However; if a small dowry is reason enough for you to avoid an alliance, then you should reconsider. Additionally, you are too hasty in your thoughts; and there may be a prior complication.” He added that as further discouragement, in case Barton needed it. Not only did his wife and her mother favor the curate over Barton, but knowing his sole purpose in coming was to be a puppet of the prince, gave Mr. Mornay a decided dislike of him.
“A prior complication?” Barton stared at the man.
“Nothing to cast doubt upon her character; only her availability.”
His brows cleared. “You are referring to the incident this morning with O’Brien. I am prepared to accept the word of Miss Forsythe upon that matter.” But that had been his first thought; if Miss Forsythe was in any way connected to a scandal it would make her less of a prize. On the other hand, it might seal his standing with Mornay, who could be grateful to the man who would take her, despite a past “complication.” He gazed evenly at his neighbour.
“May I take it then, sir, that you have no objection to me as a suitor, if this complication can be resolved to your satisfaction?”
“I have made no declaration to the contrary.” His voice was mild, though his eyes were veiled. “It does well for you that you came forward regarding your true purpose here.”
Dash it, but the gentleman was wary. No outright denial, nor an outright endorsement. Slippery as an eel. “May I speak to Miss Forsythe, then, regarding my hopes?”
“I understood you had already done so,” he replied, dryly.
Ah! Now he knew what was what. Beatrice told him—he liked that; it meant she would no doubt welcome him as a suitor. “Keep in mind, then, sir,” he said deliberately, “that I have spoken to you, and have hopes of her. If there is any concern regarding her morning’s adventure with the clergyman, I am fully prepared to ignore it entirely.”
Mr. Mornay met his eyes with an appraising, thoughtful look. “I understand you, sir.”
After he’d gone, as Barton hastened to find Anne, he considered his position. He needed to be sure of Beatrice. She had seemed pleasantly surprised at his interest in her, but he must strengthen the tie. He also needed to confirm that the “complication” was nothing other than the matter of their being unchaperoned in the cottage. That could be a problem if it somehow got out—but why should it? He’d have to devise some scheme to keep the cleric apart from her for now on, though—protect his interests and all that. But first, he needed to get himself and his sister out of Aspindon House. It was devilish contaminated!