Chapter Twenty-One
Beatrice’s bedchamber at the vicarage was a cosy room, shared with her mother, who slept on a bed against the opposite wall. There was nothing near as fancy as what Aspindon offered, but Beatrice found, to her surprise, that she enjoyed the very informality of the place. She supposed it was on account of it being closer to what she was accustomed to at home.
She thought of reading the prayer book, and praying very much for Ariana, but she was hungry. She woke her mother to help her dress. The ladies could have asked a maid, even Harrietta, but they felt awkward about it, and so helped each other instead. They proceeded to the morning room, where Mr. O’Brien sat reading a newspaper and lingering over a cup of coffee. The newspaper subscription belonged to Mr. Hargrove, but happily, had not run out.
“Good morning, ladies,” he said, in his sober but not unfriendly manner, rising to give a polite bow. “Please, help yourselves.” The sideboard drew the women with its covered dishes from which emanated an array of welcoming odours. Once again, servants had scurried to bring supplies from the big house: eggs, sausages, kidneys, ham, cake and rolls with butter—the usual fare. The women accepted their plates from Mr. Sykes, and began to select their choice of the repast. Beatrice brought her plate to the table, and then returned for a cup of hot tea. Her mother did likewise.
Peter tried to concentrate on his paper, but felt his eyes drawn to watch his guests, the younger lady in particular. Beatrice had chosen a morning dress with an open bodice, lined with muslin lace, a muslin frill at the neck, and frilled cuffs. Because of the cold she wore a laced cap that tied beneath her chin; and over her shoulders draped a warm shawl in a dark pattern that contrasted prettily with the light-coloured gown. The cap made her appear older, for young girls did not often wear caps any longer. Mrs. Forsythe’s cap was a heavier and lacier affair, but Mr. O’Brien’s eyes most often glanced up to watch the young lady’s progress. Her cheeks held a rosy morning glow that he could not dislike.
Nevertheless, as she sat down to the meal, her face was drawn, as though her thoughts were of a melancholy nature. He, too, was not in the best of spirits, and the reason was chiefly from the news article before him. The fever in London, notably the poorer sections—including St. Pancras, which was called “a hub” of sickness—was in the headlines. He had considered removing to London to gather his things, give his last sermon, and say his goodbyes; but there was a second part-time curate. He would write the man, instructing him to pick up the services. He felt a pang of concern for the parish as he continued reading.
The Chronicle strongly advised its readers of the metropolis to remain home as much as was convenient; and, if they must go abroad, to venture only into those parts of the city which were respectable. The practice of taking shortcuts through dubious alleys or byways was cautioned against, saying that, aside from the danger of footpads, these alleys were often the worst culprits in spreading the sickness. Many were filthy hovels where toxic and noxious vapours might be inhaled, making innocent travelers ill, and passing the disease onto other, cleaner areas of the city.
As Mrs. Forsythe sat down with her tea, she eyed her host, and glanced at the newspaper in his hand. With that one glance, Mr. O’Brien developed a terrible feeling of foreboding—she was going to ask to read the paper after he’d done. He could not have explained, were someone to ask him, how he knew what that glance had held, but he did. And he also knew, simultaneously, that he must not allow her to read it—not today.
Mr. O’Brien had no objection to ladies reading newspapers. But he could not distress his guests by allowing them to see the bad write-up about the fever. In a split second, before Mrs. Forsythe could even voice whether or not she did wish to read the paper, all of these thoughts fled through his mind like a coach and four run amok; and in a blink, he flipped the paper shut, folded it again and yet again, and in another second tossed it directly upon the fire in the grate. It had taken only a few quick movements, and both women at the table froze from surprise. Mrs. Forsythe almost gasped. It was such a speedy and unexpected thing her host had done!
The women stared into the fireplace at the newspaper, plain as day, burning up.
“My word!” said Beatrice. “Do you burn your newspaper every day?”
He cleared his throat. “I beg your pardon. I did not mean to startle you.”
Mrs. Forsythe found his behavior odd, but said nothing, choosing instead to begin eating. It was a shame, really; she had hoped to read it herself.
Beatrice smiled a little, and took a tentative bite of a hot roll.
Mr. O’Brien was satisfied. He had saved them from the newspaper; and he had escaped having to answer Miss Forsythe’s question.
When Mr. Speckman called the next day at Aspindon, he had only the faintest dread of finding Mrs. Mornay in ill health. He doubted there had been any transmission of the illness during the lady’s brief encounter with Mrs. Taller, choosing to believe it took a lengthy exposure for the mechanism of sickness to spread. Nevertheless, he would call upon her daily as he’d promised. With his apprentice Mr. Hannon, (highly recommended from Guy’s Hospital) looking in on the Taller’s, Mr. Speckman had less contact with the sick himself and no qualms about seeing the lady every day, therefore.
Ariana submitted to his ministrations, giving her hand for the pulse to be felt; allowing the stethoscope to touch her chest; and staying quiet as a mouse even when he laid his broad hand upon her forehead and the back of her neck. Mr. Mornay leaned against a wall, and watched.
“She’s as right as rain, sir,” the doctor finally pronounced, bringing out a much gratified look upon the features of the landowner.
“May we call back the children?” asked Ariana, although she knew he was bound to deny her request. She could not help but ask.
Mr. Speckman frowned. “Ma’am, you know you must wait. Another three to four days, at a minimum.”
“Yes, Mr. Speckman.” With a regretful glance at her husband, she glided from the room.
To Mr. Mornay, the physician said, “Keep an eye on her, sir. At the first hint of a fever, call for me.”
“Of course.” He ushered the doctor out, wishing it might be the end of their trial.
“Mamma, may I take a little air? I am in need of the exercise.”
Mrs. Forsythe surveyed Beatrice and frowned. “I should think your last adventure would have been sufficient to keep you indoors during this cold weather.”
“I shan’t be out for long; I promise you.”
“Are you wearing the woolen stockings I made you?”
Mr. O’Brien was reading a book in the corner of the room, and Beatrice blushed. How could her mother mention such a thing in front of a gentleman? “Of course.”
Peter kept his gaze glued to his book, hoping it would not be incumbent upon him to accompany the young lady. Oh, Miss Forsythe was looking lovely this morning as she always did; but he was newly determined to remain aloof and to steer clear of any situations in which they might be alone together. “No more lonely walks, if you please,” Mr. Mornay had said. Every reflection, every meditation upon his life and situation told him he must resist the pleasant girl. He would not think of her in a romantic way, as a young woman with allure; he would not think of her in a practical way, as a girl who might make a fine wife; in short, he must not think of her at all.
“Keep your exercise to a quarter hour, and I have no objection,” said the mother, as she handed an infantryman to Nigel, who was at her skirts upon the floor, hiding his little soldiers among the folds of her dress. “I shan’t have you damaging your feet; when you return you will sit by the fire and warm them.”
This seemed embarrassingly juvenile to Beatrice, who raised her gaze to the ceiling as soon as she had turned her back on her mother, but she said, “Yes, Mamma.” And with that, she left the room, gathered her coat, muffler and bonnet, her gloves and muff, and ventured outside. It was a bright, clear wintry day. She could see the old stone church of Warwickdon, and automatically turned her feet in its direction. She would walk to the church and back. Surely that was no great distance, as she could see the church clearly already.
How pleasant it had been to have Mr. O’Brien as her guide on her last visit here. As she approached the cemetery—was there not always a cemetery beside old churches?—she appreciated the ancient stones set at odd angles, whose slanted heads protruded from the ground like the poor teeth of an ogre. She was following the walkway but today decided to read some of the stones, if she could make them out.
Simon Sewell, 1700-1742; Charlotte Sewell, 1685-1730. Gunther Sewell, 1680-1732. A family. Beatrice remembered the portrait gallery at Aspindon, showing generations of Mr. Mornay’s family. The portraits ranged in quality from masterful to adequate; and the people within them were sometimes not well recalled (she thought); but each one of them had lived and walked the earth, just as she was doing now. A cold breeze made her shiver, and she moved on with a sigh toward the church.
Life was so brief! And yet her own journey seemed already so long as to be tiresome. Until recently, anyway. At Aspindon, everything had been getting more and more delightful; suddenly life held exciting possibilities. Especially since the arrival of both Mr. O’Brien and then Mr. Barton. She envisioned Tristan Barton’s dark curls and strong green eyes, his expensive twin-tailed coat and snowy cravats. His coming to Aspindon had quickened her pulse, to be sure. She remembered that one impulsive kiss and almost blushed right there out in the cold. Did he really have serious intentions? When he had called at the vicarage the day before, he had been all politeness and aloof amiability, nothing more.
She had been relieved there was nothing more. When she was not looking into his strong green eyes, she was often engaged in conversation with the man of clear blue ones: Mr. O’Brien. And his conversation was somehow more important, more significant, than Mr. Barton’s. She could not think of the vicar’s soft-spoken words with any disregard whatsoever, whereas she sometimes found Mr. Barton’s loud and jovial tones excessive. Indeed, sometimes he seemed almost coarse. But he was amusing. He loved wit, and laughter—was there really anything so wrong in that?
Mr. O’Brien was not sporting at all! He was intelligent and good for conversation—but sober. She suddenly recalled how they had laughed together in the cottage when she scolded him for taking hold of her. And when he’d guided her though the church, it had been almost delicious to share the reverence for ancient things, especially ancient holy things, with him. Yet he was often reading a book of some sort, not asking to play cards or seeking a diversion as Mr. Barton did. Oh! Which one suited her better? She could not be sure.
When she returned to the house, Mr. O’Brien was upon the floor playing with Nigel. He does have the most agreeable manner with children. She had to admit that Mr. Barton did not. He wouldn’t even call on the days when Mrs. Perler was gone, (and thus the children were with the adults almost all day). Nor did he ever show the slightest regard for the youngsters. It was as though, in his opinion, they were not quite people. But she supposed it would be different if they were his own children. Men were often like that, were they not?
She took turns trying to envision herself as the lady of the Manor; then the parson’s wife. Why was it that she could only picture a happy family at Warwickdon? Mr. Barton was the sort of man Beatrice had long dreamt of: wealthy, fashionable and urbane. If he bought the Manor, she would be neighbour to her sister in the country and able to attend as many London Seasons as she liked. When all was considered, Mr. Barton should have filled her ideal as exactly the man she wanted. Though he would not bring her the luxury of Aspindon, they would live quite comfortably and with plenty of diversions. What more could she want?
Watching Nigel laughing with Mr. O’Brien, Beatrice’s thoughts fell upon her sister, and dark fears began to intrude upon her mind. She shook them off. Ariana was young and healthy. She had not spent a great deal of time with Mrs. Taller. What danger could there be?
When Mr. Mornay blinked awake on the fourth day after his wife’s exposure to Mrs. Taller, he was beginning to feel less anxious. He and Ariana had been making the most of the time alone. He’d taken her through the maze (he never got lost himself, as he had committed it to memory years earlier) and enjoyed her bafflement at ever coming out again. They’d reminisced at the day far past when she had been running on the estate and ran smack into him—to his great ire. How he apologized for treating her so shabbily, then! For his instant combing!
Ariana was delighted at the memory, however, for it served to highlight how much she had since won his heart. The change in him, she said, was magnificent.
They had gone riding together, which was not uncommon, but somehow felt special at this time. And as Mr. Mornay was not making his rounds with the steward, or meeting with solicitors, or hearing disputes from the townspeople, or doing any of the innumerable activities which often pulled him from his wife’s side, they’d seen more of each other, making it almost like their newlywed days.
But Ariana was now in the worst of the discomfort from having to abruptly cease nursing a baby. Freddie had been fetching ice from the ice house himself in order to supply it for Mrs. Hamilton, who made cold compresses with cloths to ease the swelling. As Mr. Mornay put one arm over the sleeping figure of his wife and snuggled against her, he luxuriated in the fact that once again they had no responsibilities for the day except to entertain one another. It felt like a guilty holiday, this having none of the usual work of the place upon his shoulders.
He felt the wetness of the compresses through her nightdress and considered whether to ring for new ones. But then he noticed that the damp cloth was rather warm. In fact, it felt hot. He placed a hand upon Ariana’s neck, then her forehead, and then shot up from the bed. He rang the bellpull vigorously. Fotch appeared in a moment—
“Sir, awake, I see! Let me—”
“Send for Mr. Speckman! On the double, Fotch!”
“Yes, sir!” And with widened eyes, the servant turned and hurried off to find the butler. Mr. Mornay pulled on a pair of pantaloons, followed (as soon as he had found them) by hunting boots. He hurriedly rang the bellpull again, until Fotch returned, panting.
“Mr. Frederick has gone for the doctor, sir.”
“What, Freddy had to go?”
“We are down to precious few servants, sir.”
“Right. Have Mrs. Hamilton get a new cold compress up here, and tell her to be smart about it!”
“Yes, sir.” Fotch’s face might have been amusing at any other time; for he was itching to get to work on his master’s neck cloth, and watching Mr. Mornay hurriedly tying it himself was almost painful. Mr. Mornay, meanwhile, running into his first difficulty with his cravat, realized how idiotic it was for him to bother with the thing at all, and hastily pulled it off. Ariana was ill! She had the fever! Nothing else mattered. He sat beside her on the bed and touched her skin now and then, grimacing at how hot it felt. Her eyelids fluttered, but she did not waken.
As he waited for the arrival of Mr. Speckman he thought he would go mad with impatience, but suddenly he remembered the prayer book—it had prayers for the sick. After picking up the copy that Ariana kept on her bedside table, he found the section he wanted, took one of her hot hands into his own, and stopped first, closing his eyes, to murmur a prayer of his own .
The Bartons returned to the vicarage the next day, giving Mr. O’Brien the thought that Mr. Barton was either bored to tears, or more interested in Miss Forsythe than he had given him credit for. Since Miss Forsythe was decidedly “wife material,” he knew that the latter must be the case. And this worried him. Not because he had any claims upon Beatrice himself; indeed, no. But Barton was evidently a man of the town, and surely must be ignorant of the fact that the Forsythe’s were not in the way of wealth such as the Mornays.
What if he had the mistaken notion that Miss Forsythe was an heiress? He no doubt assumed, as many had in London, that if Mr. Mornay, the Paragon, had married a Forsythe girl, the family must be well lined in the pocket. He worried that once Mr. Barton was disabused of this notion, he might drop Miss Forsythe abruptly and break her young heart. What could he do?
They were sitting in the drawing room engaged in a rubber of whist. Miss Forsythe had just returned from yet another outdoor venture quite unharmed, and with attractively rosy cheeks. Mr. and Miss Barton, who had proposed the game, were in fine form. Miss Barton had nodded at Mr. O’Brien pointedly, letting him know that a certain letter had been dispatched. Good.
The children were in the nursery with Mrs. Perler, and so even Mrs. Forsythe had agreed to play. Mrs. Royleforst had opted to remain an observer from her usual vantage point upon the settee with Miss Bluford beside her. She was paging through a ladies’ magazine which she had brought with her from home, and exclaiming over the illustrations of the latest fashions.
“My, but the hems are all embroidered or bejewelled this year!”
“Turbans, turbans, everywhere! Look at this one in gold-coloured gauze. I must bespeak one like it, directly!”
“My word! Is not that waistline lower than what we are accustomed to seeing? My dears, the waistline on these gowns is dropping, I say! Quite a change for the empire style! What a nuisance! I will have to bespeak a new wardrobe if I dare set foot in the capital this Season!”
Beatrice eyed her thoughtfully. The idea of a new wardrobe sounded wonderful to her ears.
“Do you expect to be in London for the Season, Mrs. Forsythe? And your daughter?” asked Mr. Barton.
Beatrice glanced at him from behind her hand of cards, while her mother said, “As for myself, no, I am intent upon returning to the countryside in Chesterton. My husband and another of my children are there, you see, as well as my married eldest daughter.” She spoke more of the family for a few minutes, about her youngest daughter Lucy, and how her presence must be wanted at home.
“And what of you, Miss Forsythe? Will you be gracing the ballrooms this year?”
Beatrice had to grimace. ‘I cannot say, sir. My sister is still considering whether to take me; my hopes rest upon her entirely, I’m afraid.”
“But the Mornays do return to town for the Season, do they not? It would be most peculiar of ‘em not to!”
Mrs. Forsythe interjected gently, “I believe they are happy in domestic life, sir. They go to town less and less. Perhaps when the children are older—”
“The children!” he exclaimed. “I fail to see why they should have anything to do with it. Children are no trouble at all so long as you have servants and nursemaids enough.”
Beatrice almost blushed at this remark. His sentiment might have been a common attitude in some circles, but it was not one that her family or the Mornays shared.
Their host cleared his throat. Laying down a trump card, he said, mildly, “We cannot all be of such a mind as to ignore our own offspring.”
Beatrice hoped this gentle reproof might awaken Mr. Barton to the need for a retraction, or at least a softening of his statement. But Mr. Barton blithely continued, “Well, sir, my advice to those who are not, would be to become of such a mind. If they wish to continue to enjoy life—the opera, the theatre, music, and dancing—what place is there for children? None whatsoever. I tell you, there is no drawing room in London that will welcome the little creatures, and what would become of polite society if they did?”
He took a breath, and added, “I, for one, should ensure that my wife, were I blessed with one, would have servants enough at her disposal to keep her free of the nursery and the schoolroom.” He topped Mr. O’Brien’s card with one of his own and took the trick, saying, “Proper servants is all one needs. A nurse, a governess, a tutor, perhaps; and any couple may rove the town to their heart’s content.”
Mrs. Forsythe gave him a gently reproving smile. “Rove the town, sir? I hardly think a parent of good character would wish to rove the town to the neglect of their own fireside.”
“Ma’am, I only mean to participate in society,” he said, with a look at Beatrice, to see if his remarks had met with equal reproof in her mind. He thought it had, for she was staring at him in surprise. She quickly lowered her eyes when he glanced her way, but he’d seen her doubts. Fortunately for him, Beatrice changed the subject.
“Mr. O’Brien, do you intend upon continuing prayers this evening? Mr. Speckman has brought us only good news, these three days.”
“We must continue in prayer,” said her mother. “Until the quarantine is ended. There is still a danger, my dear.”
“Upon my word! I adore this bonnet! Look you, Mrs. Forsythe and tell me if you do not agree!” Mrs. Royleforst had given her magazine to Miss Bluford who obediently rose and came to show the page to the ladies at the table. “Would you not snatch it up directly?” she said, beaming from her little eyes at Beatrice’s mother.
Mrs. Forsythe was not given to high fashion at any time, but she politely looked over the bonnet in question, and nodded, saying, “Very pretty, to be sure!” She directed a kind smile at the woman, who said to her companion, “Now show Miss Forsythe! And Miss Barton.”
The two ladies each surveyed the bonnet in question, making appropriately admiring remarks, and even the gentlemen were curious and had to look. Mr. O’Brien said, “There is endless variation to women’s hats, it seems to me. And all so fetching!”
Mr. Barton said, “All fetching? I say, not! A lady must choose her headwear so that it fits the shape of her face, the shade of her skin, her style of gown, and befits her standing in society.”
“Mr. Barton,” said his sister, “We should hardly find a bonnet to wear at all with such strictures.” She and Beatrice exchanged a look as if to say, “How absurd he is!”
Beatrice reflected that Mr. Barton, though not the sharpest wit at the table, must improve with the influence of a good wife to school him. She felt surely—if she did choose to be courted by him—that she could have that good influence upon him, even to change some of his poor ideas of domesticity. If Mr. Mornay gave his consent to the courtship, that is.
She chanced to look up and met Mr. O’Brien’s clear blue eyes. For a moment she felt as if he could read into her soul. Did he know her thoughts about Mr. Barton? And did he know, too, that sometimes her thoughts were more upon him?