Chapter Nineteen
Mr. Frederick knocked hesitantly upon Mr. Mornay’s study door, entered, and shut it behind him. “The Black Boar has been consulted, sir; they have one room available only. The innkeeper expects that he may have two rooms on the morrow, however, and wishes to know if you will be laying a deposit on them.”
“Two rooms. Hardly enough for four women and two children, plus servants and wet nurse.” He stood up from behind his desk, saying, “Perhaps I’ll take Ariana to another property, and let the others have this house.” He was thinking aloud, which meant that if Frederick desired to say something of the matter, he could.
“What about Glendover, sir? Without a clergyman in it, there’s no reason why the women could not stay there. Plenty of room.”
“I’ll have to see if that’s permissible,” he said, rubbing his chin. The house of worship was on his land, and he held the advowson, but it properly belonged to the Bishop of the Anglican Church. He looked appreciatively at his butler. “Well done, Freddy! You may have saved the day. Get a boy to run me a message to the Ordinary. He ought to know.”
“Yes, sir.” Freddy was elated to have been of help, and, despite the worrisome events causing this mass exodus of the guests, he was ready to go off to accomplish his master’s bidding with a spring in his step—almost. “There is one thing more, sir.”
When he saw the dark brow go up in expectation, he said, “I wish to be certain you understand that Fotch and I will remain in the house with you and Mrs. Mornay. In addition, one housemaid, and cook, (so long as she is required only to stay in the kitchens) will remain. I’m afraid Monsieur René is packing his things as we speak; but he will inquire next week to ascertain if it is safe for him to return.
Monsieur René was an expensive French chef whom Mr. Mornay kept on because he had a discriminating and fussy palate. The Frenchman in turn, was discriminating and fussy regarding the use of ingredients and was often requiring trips to London to restock his pantry. But since his culinary creations were precisely of the caliber that Mr. Mornay most enjoyed, his eccentricities were appreciated rather than found chafing.
“That seems in keeping with René, to be sure. Tell the other servants who choose to stay that I’ll pay double wages, but I want only those who aren’t afraid, and, if anyone is prone to illness, see that they do not stay.” He had another thought. “What of Mrs. Hamilton?”
“Oh, staying sir, I beg your pardon! She is devoted to you and the mistress, as you know.”
“Yes; and I suppose Molly?”
“She is the housemaid I referred to, earlier, sir. Staying like an oak in the ground.” Molly had risen from the scullery to parlourmaid and was entirely devoted to the Mornays.
Mr. Mornay nodded. It was beginning to feel as though the country had been invaded at last, and they were about to face battle—no matter that the war with the French had ended.
“Oh, and the footmen have informed me, sir—all save Harry—that they will stay until it is known whether…whether…” He did not want to say the words: Whether Mrs. Mornay has contracted the fever. But Mr. Mornay spared him the need.
“Very good, thank you, Freddy.”
“We must say goodbye to Ariana,” Mrs. Forsythe said, as soon as Mr. Mornay appeared from his study. The servants had been dashing from guest bedchamber to guest bedchamber, helping with packing. Miss Bluford alone took care of her mistress, but still there was a great scurrying going on.
Mrs. Forsythe had not yet packed. She had been on her way to do so when it occurred to her that if her daughter did in fact have the seed of illness within her, that she might not see her again! Banish the thought! But she could not. Once conceived, it continued to be felt, making its presence known like a little dog at one’s heels, forever nipping…..So she returned to the corridor to find her host and let him know her intentions. It felt so odd, to be always speaking to him across a wide chasm, as he continued to keep his distance on account of his exposure.
“I do not think it advisable,” he said, but the usual authority in his tone was not present. He had to admit that it might be important to his wife—or would it upset her more? He said, “Allow me to speak with her, first. See to your packing, and I’ll see—” He stopped. “You will be in charge of the children,” he suddenly remembered. “If Ariana must endure the separation from them, and you were to get the illness from her anyway—.”
“Oh,” she moaned. “I see your point. I will not see her. Perhaps Beatrice may?” But she looked up and saw his face and realized that Beatrice would be helping with the children, too; the same separation must be kept regarding all of them.
Mrs. Forsythe cleared her throat. “Phillip,” she said, softly. “I can stay with you. Allow me to stay with my daughter—I am her mother, after all. The two of us can support one another if she falls ill; split the burden of her care. I cannot see you carrying this alone.”
He eyed her a moment, remembered instantly his earlier prayer and replied, with a feeling of hope more than conviction, “I shanʼt be alone. Go with the others.”
Mrs. Forsythe lowered her eyes for a second or two. “You are a father as well as a husband,” she added, in that same soft tone. “If you wear yourself out, you are more likely to fall ill; only think how much worse it will be for the children if—”
“No,” he said. He eyed his mother-in-law with as grave a face as he had ever been known to wear. But then, in a very soft tone, added, “Do not even think it.”
Just then Mr. Speckman appeared in the corridor, hurrying toward them, grave of face. He shook his head sadly to the husband’s inquiring gaze. “Have the children been removed from the premises yet?”
“They’re going now.”
“Good.” Mr. Speckman licked his lips nervously. “And the ladies as well, I presume?”
“We’re just on our way, sir.” Mrs. Forsythe said in a subdued tone.
“Very good,” he murmured. “Leave your new direction with a servant so I may reach you.”
His serious countenance heightened her sense of dread, but she said only, “Thank you, sir,” and went to finish packing her things.
Mr. Mornay checked on his wife. He’d only gone a few steps, however, when he heard, “Mr. Mornay, sir!” It was the voice of Mr. O’Brien. He stopped and waited. He could almost welcome the hour when everyone had gone! It was one bother after another.
“I have a message from Mr. Hargrove,” he said excitedly, when he’d come up to him, still holding the missive in one hand. “He is abandoning the house as we speak and wishes me joy of it! The housekeeper and servants are wondering if they should close up the place until I return—or keep it open and ready for my use.” Mr. Mornay waited, so he continued, “He asks me to let them know at once, and even desires me to consider taking up residence as quickly as possible, as he does not like to leave his parishioners without a man to perform the duties of service.”
O’Brien’s shining eyes did little to enlighten Mr. Mornay’s, for he felt he had much more serious matters to think about than whether or not this cleric was able to begin housekeeping. But he forced himself to be polite.
“I wish you every happiness,” he said, hoping to hide his annoyance. He made to turn around—finally he’d join his wife.
“Do you not see, sir?” Mr. O’Brien asked, almost with a grin. “I am able to offer rooms for each of your guests, and they may join me at Warwickdon directly! This very day.”
Mr. Mornay’s eyes lost their annoyance. Since Mr. Hargrove had formally approved Mr. O’Brien for the living, he was virtually in legal possession of the parsonage, (and soon would be, waiting only for an installation ceremony). He could invite others to the house. There was no need to bother any local officials over the matter, and his family and children would be safely removed from Aspindon with speed. Additionally—and this mattered in his decision—his wife would rejoice that Beatrice and the clergyman would no doubt have more opportunity to deepen their acquaintance.
“Well done! I am obliged to you.”
“Not at all, sir! I am grateful that I am for once in a position to offer you some help.” As indeed he was. It was truly the first time for such a thing, and the fact that his circumstance was possible only because Mr. Mornay himself had recommended Mr. O’Brien for the living was like poetic justice.
The seriousness nature of the need for lodgings was not lost on Peter, either. Ariana Mornay was a friend, and he was stricken with concern for her as much as anyone. The ensuing years since her marriage had served him well in conquering his old feelings for her, but now it felt deeply satisfying to his manly self that he was finally, in some way, able to be of service, and that it was an important service.
In addition, it was the younger Miss Forsythe who was beginning to fill his mind. Not that he was allowing himself to admire her openly—he must not!
As if knowing the direction of his thoughts, Mr. Mornay gave him a wizened look and said, “But do have a care regarding Miss Forsythe, sir. No more lonely walks, if you please.” He said this despite his wife’s hopes in the matter, for he felt Beatrice ought not to be railroaded into a union with the cleric if she truly preferred young Barton.
Mr. O’Brien said, “You have my word, sir.”
As Mr. Mornay turned away he added over his shoulder, “And keep an eye on Barton.”
Mr. O’Brien stared after him, amazed. And suddenly his heart felt lighter. But he mustn’t mistake the man’s meaning. He’d said no more lonely walks. He might not approve of Barton, but he’d given no indication that he approved of him, Mr. O’Brien, either. As he went to search out the guests to share the good news, he reflected that the Mornays were his benefactors now; the very last thing he should be considering was falling in love with their sister. Mr. Mornay’s warning would help strengthen his resolve not to think of Miss Forsythe—he hoped.
But he would wholeheartedly fulfill his clerical duties to them. While Glendover lacked a clergyman, he could encourage them to attend his church, and he’d endeavour to exercise a proper clergyman’s attitude toward them, as he would toward anyone in his parish.
An hour or two later, he handed up the ladies into Mornay’s carriage. First, Mrs. Royleforst, who harrumphed her way in; then Miss Bluford, accepting his help with a big, wobbly smile (which surprised him a great deal; in fact, he’d been similarly surprised by a number of such smiles which she had favored him with of late); then, Mrs. Forsythe, with a polite word of thanks and ladylike ascent; and pretty Miss Forsythe, with a sad nod of gratitude. Finally, Mrs. Perler emerged with the children. Nigel was all aflutter, for he loved to ride in the carriage, and he scrambled up, hardly allowing Mr. O’Brien to so much as to guard his back; and then Mrs. Perler carefully took the steps holding the baby. Servants followed with all manner of luggage and blankets and toys, to be transported in a second coach which sat behind the first.
When both the large coaches were stuffed with passengers, supplies, and luggage, they started off. Mr. O’Brien had given the family the first vehicle; in the second coach, he sat across from a wet nurse from the village who appeared to be a young mother in good health, and who had her own child in tow, a sleeping infant in her arms. Her luggage was a single valise and a large cloth sack of belongings. A few other servants filled the seats, a chambermaid and parlour maid, and Harrietta. The lady’s maid was red-faced from crying, and often wiped tears from her face with a sodden handkerchief.
She raised the volume of her crying most remarkably as the trip commenced, though the wet nurse scolded her for it, saying she was like to raise the dead, and what was the new vicar to think of such a display?
Harrietta sobbed, “I can’ ‘elp it! My poor mistress! My poor Mrs. Mornay! They say MaryAnn’s dyin’!” She blew her nose loudly into a handkerchief. Mr. O’Brien said, “There, there, she isn’t sick yet. She may be spared entirely, you know.”
Harrietta studied her hands. “I know it, sir.” But her eyes once more welled with tears. “It’s ‘avin’ to leave the ‘ouse an’ all, I suppose! It’s just like she’s got the plague!”
“Now, look here,” said Mr. O’Brien, who was becoming slightly incensed. “There’ll be none of such talk, do you hear? If you spread your pessimism to the other servants, I’ll speak to your master about it.”
At this Harrietta’s head came up and she studied Mr. O’Brien. She did not want to cause trouble, but she had to think him a most unfeeling man. They all ought to be worried about Mrs. Mornay as much as she was. But perhaps they did not love her like her lady’s maid did. Harrietta was a devoted servant since the day that Miss Forsythe’s coming had raised her from the position of housemaid to that of lady’s maid. Mrs. Bentley (now Mrs. Pellham), her former employer, had provided the necessary instruction for her to learn how to style hair and to care for the expensive fabrics used for ladies’ clothing. She had, in one short week, gone from a life of drudgery to that of, comparatively speaking, luxury. And Mrs. Mornay was so pleasant and kind! Why, if anything were to happen to her—and here Harrietta began to shed fresh tears, only she turned away from the parson so he wouldn’t see them.
He did, of course. But he looked to the other maids. “Understand this regarding your mistress. She has only been exposed to one sick person. Physicians come into contact with the sick every day of their lives, and yet most of them live to a ripe old age. Mr. Speckman is merely being cautious on account of the children.” The maids listened, wide-eyed, and interested in every detail they could get hold of. He nodded toward Harrietta.
“This lady has exerted herself far beyond what is merited by the situation. See that no one of you goes off on fanciful notions like hers; we have left Mrs. Mornay in good health and in good hands, and we will add to that our sincere and earnest prayers. If any of you should wish to join us in the drawing room for prayers, we will hold them say, about nine o’clock of an evening.”
“Yes, sir, thank you, sir.”
“Yes, thank you, sir.” added Harrietta, almost apologetically.
When the carriages with their luggage and supplies and servants and guests reached Warwickdon, Mrs. Persimmon came out to greet the new master of the house. She had received word barely an hour since that such a numerous company was to come! Her heart was lifted up at the thought; and to have children beneath the roof! What a blessing! Of course, she had quite a load of new concerns and meant to ask the master if help might be available, but as she saw the servants exiting the carriage, she breathed easier.
She knew nothing of the reason why all of these people were descending upon the rectory—which she would have to remember to begin referring to as the vicarage—and with her previous master’s departure only that morning, it was all a bit unsettling; but she knew that a square was a square and a circle a circle; in other words, all would settle down in its place in time. She had shed a few tears at the loss of Mr. Hargrove, but Mrs. Persimmon was a woman of high energy, and she bounced back from setbacks. Further, she lived upon being needed, and a single young vicar must be in need of her service.
By the time Mr. O’Brien made his way to the front door, she could almost have kissed him. “Sir!” she exclaimed, “Might I be allowed to say how very welcome you are to this establishment? How wonderful it is, to have you here directly!” She made a small motion, so that he looked past her to the butler and the maid, the only other servants of the place. The butler bowed, holding back a smile; the maid curtseyed with trepidation, for the incoming parade she could see on the walkway and behind her new master set her heart beating in a flurry. What a great deal of work she was in for!
Mrs. Perler came in next, and Mrs. Persimmon almost melted at sight of the infant. But she said, “Mr. O’Brien, sir! You did say you were an unmarried gentleman, did you not?” She was eyeing the infant with wide eyes.
He answered, “I am an unmarried gentleman.” He motioned to the baby and the woman. “This is Mr. Mornay’s child, and the children’s nurse. I will explain all to you shortly, Mrs. Persimmon. The order of the day right now is to find rooms for all of our guests. In the meantime, send a servant to the village—and there are a number of them come with us, who will help you in everything—to put together a dinner for us.”
From behind him, one of those servants spoke up. She was a kitchen maid, helper to Cook, and she said, with an earnest countenance, “Oh, sir, Cook says she’ll be sending over the meal, for she ‘as enough for a regiment, sir, and no bodies to eat it at all!”
“Excellent,” said Mrs. Persimmon happily. To the servants, she added, “Go with Bessie, here then, and she’ll show you to your quarters where you can leave your things. Then hurry down to help” She paused. “Mr. Sykes, see that our guests are shown to the drawing room and given our finest Bohea! We will settle them in their guest chambers soon enough, if you please.”
“Yes, ma’am,” the butler replied, with a deep nod. It was easy to ascertain that Mrs. Persimmon was the head of the staff in this household.
Mr. O’Brien welcomed the Forsythe ladies, and then Mrs. Royleforst and Miss Bluford into his abode. Ah! How good it felt, to be master of the house! His own establishment! The papers hadn’t all been filed yet, but here he was! It was a miracle.
Mr. Barton plopped upon a sofa in his house and exclaimed to his sister, who sat quietly knitting before the fire, “Thank goodness we got through that business without having to entertain the lot of them. Quite a production that would have been. Would have sent me to Bedlam, I’m sure!”
“Tristan.”
Her quiet rebuke made him look up, innocently. “Did you actually wish to have that whole lot here with us? Farewell to peace and quiet, then!”
“Since when have you ever sought or required peace and quiet?” she asked. “And what do you intend to do with yourself now that Mr. Mornay is in quarantine with his wife?”
Barton was silent for a minute, eyeing her while he considered the matter. He had kept his hat and was absently tossing it into the air and catching it while he lay back, his feet upon a table.
“May I remove your boots, sir?” It was his manservant, who served as butler, footman and valet, all in one.
“No, I shan’t stay for long.” To his sister, he continued, “I’m going to the vicarage to see if I may offer my services. With all the moving in and other business going on, this ought to be a diversion.” He yawned.
“Offer your services?” she asked, doubtfully. “Get in the way, is more like. You ought to give them time to be settled properly before adding to the commotion.”
At that moment the manservant was back, and he held a letter upon a salver, which he offered to his master, saying, “For you, sir. Just arrived—by special messenger,” he added, importantly. Barton took the missive, spied the seal, and sat up quickly. “Did you pay the man? Does he wait for a reply?”
“I directed him to the kitchens for refreshment, sir. He will carry a reply.” He paused while Barton tore open the seal, exclaiming, “It’s from the Regent, Anne! What did I tell you? He writes to me! Me!”
“If I may sir,” the servant said. “Since you have only carriage horses, the man will need to rest his horse for some time before he returns to London.”
Barton was already reading, and his face crumpled at the brevity of the note. He made no answer to his servant.
“What does he say?” asked Anne.
“He wants an answer from Mornay.” He looked frowningly at her. “Dash it, but I’ve made precious little progress on that head.”
Anne was silent a moment. “Tristan, no man in his right mind will turn down a peerage—or any title. Mr. Mornay is a peculiar sort of person—highly particular, that is—but he is imminently practical. I cannot expect that your mission can do anything but succeed.”
Barton surveyed his sister in silence for a moment. “Are you suggesting I give the prince a reason to hope?”
“Yes!” She looked very decided. “Would he deny his chance for his wife to be Lady Mornay? or ‘Lady Something-or-other?’ He has a son and heir! Would he deny his son the chance to inherit a title? To sit in Parliament? Nay. I think not.”
Tristan slowly smiled. “You know, Anne, you are proving your worth to me.”
She did not smile in return.
“Does that not please you?” he asked, perplexed.
She looked up. “I should never have to prove my worth to you, Tristan. I am your sister. Your flesh and blood.” She returned her eyes to her knitting. “I do worry about you. About who you are as a man in your secret heart of hearts. You do not respect me, for you did not respect mother. And how can you think to make any woman happy as your wife?”
He blanched, but then almost laughed. “Upon my word, Anne! You do draw the most confounding conclusions!” When she just continued to knit in silence, he added, with a mildly troubled look upon his face, “I daresay, men do not marry to make a wife happy; they marry to be made happy. The woman was made for the man, not man for the woman! Where do you form your preposterous opinions?”
She met his gaze evenly. “I am glad, by God, that I should never be your wife. I pity the creature who is.” This angered him. He got up and shook out his shoulders, smoothing down his apparel. “I did nothing to deserve that! And I pity you, for you shall never be any man’s wife! No one marries a soiled woman.” He turned and looked at her intently. “Mind you how you speak to your brother, Miss Barton. Your welfare is in my hands, I remind you!”
He paused, nettled to see that she had heard him without making the least gesture of sorrow or regret for her words. To his frustration, she had not even done with him, and said, “If you do not care for your family, you are worse than an infidel or a heathen.”
He let out a breath of derision. “I will not abide this.” And with that, he strode from the room. He went first to his bedchamber, where he had stowed some foolscap and a quill and ink. He wrote, after thinking for a moment, “To His Royal Highness, the Prince Regent. I am highly gratified, sir, to have the best of news to impart to you…”