Chapter Twenty-Four
As he led the way to the front door Mr. O’Brien said, “I would feel more secure if you sought your mother’s leave before accompanying me, Miss Forsythe.”
Beatrice stared at him. “Do I make you uneasy, sir?” Her eyes twinkled and she turned away smiling, but he said, “No; but your brother-in-law does.” When she looked back at him, he was smiling gently. “Our last misadventure earned us a great deal of undue concern,” he added, “and we must not have a repeat performance of that.”
“Have no fear!” she returned. “I promise not to get frost bit.”
He helped her with her coat. Mr. O’Brien had on a double-breasted coat of black cloth, dark pantaloons and hunting boots. The linen frill of his white shirt peeked over his waistcoat, topped by a neatly tied cravat. He put on a black fawn hat and buff gloves, and allowed Sykes to help him wrap his face in a warm muffler.
Beatrice, watching as she tied her bonnet and put on her gloves, decided she would try to discover something of Mr. O’Brien’s thoughts during this drive. She grabbed her large fur muff—it had come in handy the other day. Mr. O’Brien motioned to one of the servants who had come from Aspindon, and the man fell into step behind them.
“If I hear a word of reproach about this,” he said to her as they went toward the coach, “I will turn it right back around to you.”
“My mother will never reproach you, sir,” she said, mysteriously.
The servant hopped onto the back of the carriage, and they entered and took seats facing each other. Mr. O’Brien looked at her quizzically. “And why will your mother never reproach me?”
Beatrice considered how best to answer him. Perhaps she should not have teased him with that statement. But it was true.
“Because I have opened the parsonage to you?” he guessed.
She gazed at him. “Because she finds you agreeable,” she said, finally. “She utterly approves of you.”
He smiled. “And is your mother the only Forsythe who finds me agreeable?” he asked.
Beatrice smiled. “Not at all!” When he smiled at her response, she said, “My sister has always found you so.”
They chuckled; but he said, “Not always, I’m afraid. And with only myself to blame for that.”
“I have heard her say you are remarkably changed, in every good way.”
He eyed her solemnly. “Little Beatrice,” he said, shaking his head. If he had a shred of confidence that he could court her he would have added, “And I might say the same about you—remarkably changed, in every good way.”
When Beatrice heard the words “little Beatrice,” she was instantly reminded of the promise she had made at 12 years old. She did not want to be reminded of it. And why did Mr. O’Brien call her that? It made her feel like a child and put her at a disadvantage. And what was next? Was he going to raise the memory of her rash words? Or the way she had undoubtedly embarrassed him before his family by going on and on about it?
“I will marry him” she had said right to the man’s mother. “As soon as my papa gives his leave!” She should not let it haunt her, for if he was going to reproach her with it, he would surely have done so by now. Beatrice fell silent as these thoughts roiled in her brain. Mr. O’Brien studied the countryside. He looked almost as elegant as Mr. Barton, she decided, but with a less studied air. His choice of attire was perfectly suitable for a clergyman, and, though it may have been less dear than Mr. Barton’s, Mr. O’Brien was taller and manlier in his bearing.
Mr. Barton chose his garments, she thought, to make a dash. Mr. O’Brien wore what was necessary and practical. He was not averse to being in fashion, but he did not live for it. Mr. Barton would likely stay home, she thought, rather than appear in anything less than the latest mode. Mr. O’Brien would not.
Ariana had spoken of the young Mr. O’Brien once—or was it Aunt Bentley? As a tall, young sprig, slim as a whip. He was no longer the skinny young man. Perhaps he fenced often, as did Mr. Mornay. She could not imagine Mr. Barton taking well to the sport. And why was she comparing these gentlemen and thinking of such things? She turned to look out the window.
“When we arrive at the house,” he said, “you must stay in the carriage; I will discover the news.” She said nothing, only took in his earnest blue gaze and felt a great annoyance that she kept noticing his eyes. How irksome, to see nothing in him but a beautiful, sincere man. He caught her gaze and for a moment it looked to Beatrice that his look was full of something—was it longing? What, she wondered, did Mr. O’Brien long for? If only—
Oh, she felt dishonest! She admired him, but yet was sure he would ruin all her hopes if she were to marry him. Not that he had asked her. Was it wrong to secretly admire him more than Mr. Barton, while clinging outwardly to her hopes of the worldlier man? If Tristan Barton would only be agreeable, she could see her way to marrying him. She would be happier, after all, in the course of life with a secure and comfortable income to depend upon, and he was the man who had it. But that look Mr. O’Brien had given her—it was both wonderful and terrible. Beatrice suddenly decided she must make certain Mr. O’Brien understood her, so that he would not become bold, or entertain romantic notions of her and end up with ruined hopes.
“Sir, may I speak plainly with you?” she said, large-eyed.
Mr. O’Brien nodded at the lovely green eyes which contrasted so prettily with the russet curls framing her face. She was a lovely sight, as pretty and desirable a young woman as any man should be happy and proud to own the affections of…Oh,dear! Why must he always think thus? “I am at your service, Miss Forsythe,” he said. “I am a curate, after all.”
“A vicar, now, sir.”
He smiled. “Iʼm afraid it wonʼt feel quite real until Iʼve had my installation service. But people speak plainly with me often, and I am happy to oblige.” Actually, his interest was piqued. As he waited expectantly, his clear blue eyes upon her, Beatrice blushed lightly. He appreciated how her rosy cheeks contrasted with her gray redingote.
She cleared her throat.
“May I ask—” he began, while at the very same moment, she said, “Here is the thing.” They exchanged a smile. “Here is the thing,” she said again, wondering why on earth she had wanted this conversation. She felt embarrassed now that she had demanded his attention, and had no alternative but to plunge ahead; and so she continued, “I have been given—to understand—” and she peeked at his eyes.
“Yes?” He grew more curious by the second.
“By Mr. Barton…that he desires to court me.” (Goodness; that not was not what she had meant to say, for he hadn’t said that exactly!)
Mr. O’Brien drew back. His face went blank, but he said, “And this is troubling to you?” Could it be? He might have hopes, if it were so. Slim hopes, due to Mornay, but something. “Has he sought the permission of your parents? Or of Mr. Mornay?”
“He means to, but on account of my sister’s exposure to the fever, has lacked an opportunity to speak with Mr. Mornay.”
He nodded, listening intently. Beatrice wished she were talking to him of something else! But what could she say? That in truth she admired the cleric more? That could not be spoken.
“How may I be of service to you in this?”
She took a deep breath. “Your acquaintance with Mr. Barton is short, I grant, but I need to know your assessment of his character. I am having some difficulty making it out…” She trailed off.
A look of concern flitted across his face, and in an apologetic tone, he said, “I fear I am not in a position to judge his character.” He fell silent a minute. Indeed there were a few things that he had noticed about the man, but it did not seem fair that he should warn her against him; not when he knew how much he wished he could be in that man’s position, in any position that would leave him free to pay his addresses to her. He was liable to do it again, was he not! Make a cake of himself over a Forsythe girl!
“As a clergyman, sir, I ask you. Do you not form opinions of people?”
He gave a little smile. She had no idea of his feelings for her, he could see. That was probably a good thing. “I do, of course; but I do not think it quite fair to Mr. Barton if I say anything of him based upon so short an acquaintance.” He swallowed, and said, “He is evidently a man of some standing, and seems to have a good fortune.”
It was true that she thought so herself. Nodding in agreement, she said, “Yes, I expect he could purchase the Manor, and it is a fine, large house. Not so fine as Aspindon, of course, but still a proud dwelling.”
“Yes.” He thought of his pride at being the occupant of the vicarage, and could only imagine how much larger and finer the Manor House must be. He felt his pride deflating, like a balloon that had lost its air. But Beatrice deserved such a house.
“And he goes to London for the Season every year, I understand,” she added, brightly.
“Does that suit you?” he asked.
“Yes! Exceedingly.” But even as she spoke, her words felt hollow for some reason. She did not understand why they did. She desired to go to London, did she not? The thought of a Season every year—why it was thrilling, it must be so!
“I think I should say,” he offered, making her turn hopeful eyes upon him, “that it speaks well of Mr. Barton that he would offer for you (and I hope you won’t take this badly, for I mean nothing against you by it) but his circumstances are above yours, do you not agree?”
“Oh, yes, that is true! I have family, with Mrs. Mornay as my sister; but he has fortune, I grant him that.”
His next words were meant to assure her, though he could not say them enthusiastically. “He will keep you in good style.”
“Yes.”
“In short, I can only say that there appears to be no reason against him, unless you know of something in him that I do not.”
Her pretty eyes widened. “But I am asking what you know of him! As a friend, if not a vicar. Gentlemen are often knowledgeable of other gentlemen in ways that we females are wholly ignorant of. We have no manner of knowing or judging a man in his true character when we only see him in company at his best behaviour. I am asking you, sir, if you know of anything undesirable in him. Something I would not see in a drawing room!”
Her manner was so earnest that he fought within himself for a few moments. Was she desperate to think well of him, or determined to find fault with the man? He searched his brain for anything that might answer. He cleared his throat. “What I have seen of him, Miss Forsythe, I have seen in the drawing room.” He took a breath and decided he must speak his mind, for her sake. “I do not take him for a man of deep religion; if that is a thing you seek to know.”
She nodded eagerly. “Yes, I have thought as much.”
“I have not seen evidence that he and his sister share a great love between them, as some siblings do.”
“I have noted that, too!”
Frowning, he added, “I have not seen a fondness for children in him.”
“Alas, no.”
“But I must tell you—”
“Yes? Yes!”
“Mr. Mornay is the man whose opinion you must seek. He will know whether Mr. Barton is suitable for you better than I.”
A strange sort of disappointment filled her breast. Mr. O’Brien did not want to discourage her regarding Mr. Barton’s suit. Why was that deflating? She should have welcomed it as evidence that Mr. Barton had no grievous failings that should rightly warn her away. But instead, she felt disappointed. Another matter occurred to her. One that she had no idea she would raise, but suddenly she did. “Mr. O’Brien, I must discuss one thing more with you, if I may?”
They were pulling up to Aspindon House, but he said, “By all means.”
“I want to mention how good of you it is that you have not once even alluded to my childish promise to marry you.” She tried to laugh while she spoke, to show him she knew it was meaningless now.
“Of course not.”
“You understand, then, that it was my youth and inexperience speaking?”
“Of course.” But he looked uncomfortable.
“It does not pain you that I mention it?” She asked gently.
He met her gaze, her large pretty eyes, and said just as gently back, “Little Beatrice; no man of honour would hold a child to such a thing.”
“No,” she agreed, her eyes suddenly seeming to shine. She turned her head away, looking out the window. “I was only a child.”
“A fetching, affectionate one,” he said, smiling at the memory, “though plaguing at times.”
She turned back to meet his gaze. Her eyes were no longer watery. “I daresay I did plague you. I am sorry for it.” The carriage slowed to a stop, and he came to attention.
“Stay here, please. I’ll be right back,” he said.
“Yes, sir.” He climbed out of the coach and was at the door of the house in a minute.
Peter O’Brien was troubled. As he waited for the door to be answered, he wondered: What did Beatrice want of him? What did his opinion of Mr. Barton matter? It would normally be precisely the thing a young lady should not wish to know, if she cherished hopes of marriage to a man. Why look for trouble? Why seek to know what might alter the course? Did she truly want Barton or not, that was his question.
The housekeeper answered the door. She looked frazzled. Her eyes widened at sight of him and she stepped back. “Come no further, sir! The mistress has fallen ill! She’s got the fever! God have mercy on us!”
Somehow Beatrice had convinced herself that her sister would not take sick. But Mr. O’Brien’s face as he shouted to the coachman to return them to the vicarage, and his eyes, full of regret when he climbed back into the coach, told her even before he made the dreaded announcement, that she’d been mistaken. For Beatrice, the atmosphere in the carriage swiftly became one of dark forebodings.
“A fever is not always severe,” Mr. O’Brien said, in an effort to comfort her.
“Yes,” she agreed, in a low voice. But her eyes were filled with worry.
“We will continue to hold Mrs. and Mr. Mornay in prayer. You must trust God’s faithfulness.”
She looked up to meet his gaze. “God’s faithfulness, sir, did not prevent a score of deaths in London from this illness!”
“Yes; but many of those people were undernourished, not attended to in their illness, and in a weakened state before they got the fever. Your sister is young and strong, and in the best hands. We have every reason to hope!”
She nodded, but a tear slipped from one eye.
He rummaged and produced a handkerchief from an inside pocket of his waistcoat.
“Thank you,” she said, and dabbed her eyes. “Truly, I did not believe—that she would take ill.”
He nodded.
“I may yet be at fault for her death!” She sniffed as more tears emerged.
Mr. O’Brien sat forward in concern. “Miss Forsythe—Miss Beatrice,” he said, stricken by her tears, “You are leaping to conclusions. You must take each day as it comes, and attend only to the trouble it brings. Do not borrow troubles that have yet to occur.”
“But I cannot help thinking she may die! Other people have died from this! And her exposure was all—my—fault!”
He sat back and with a voice that was suddenly firm said, “That is enough of such nonsense!”
She looked up at him in surprise. “Is it nonsense?”
“At this point, yes, utterly.”
She sniffed, but stopped crying, and hereafter eyed him with a surprised regard. Mr. O’Brien did not tolerate nonsense—and she appreciated him for it. Indeed, she even felt better. Perhaps Ariana would not have a severe case of the fever. She might recover quickly. Mr. O’Brien was right.
“As to our former discussion,” he said suddenly, leaning in toward her, “if I may be of any help, please do call upon me. But I advise you to voice your concerns to Mr. Mornay as soon as he is able to hear them.”
“I shall, I thank you.”
Mr. O'Brien paused, looking at her. “Are you to be considered betrothed, then? To Mr. Barton?”
“No promises have been made. He has not spoken for me yet.”
“It is what you wish, however?”
Ah! The very question she kept returning to herself. Was Mr. Barton what she wanted in a husband? She’d as much as given him permission to court her. She hesitated, searching Mr. O’Brien’s gentle face as if he could supply the answer. His earnest blue eyes, quite beautiful for a man, waited upon her. There was a hint of fine blond stubble about his chin, not unbecoming. Finally, she said the only thing she could say.
“It is, yes.”
As she said it, she felt it was not what she wished. There was something that drew her to Mr. O’Brien, and it had nothing at all to do with his situation, or his fortune, or his lack of one. It had nothing to do with the size of his house, or with whether or not he would go to London for the Season. It had nothing to do with reason, for goodness’ sake! It was utterly unreasonable, and went against everything she thought she had wanted in a marriage. In a man. But suddenly, directly after telling Mr. O’Brien that she wished for Mr. Barton to court her, she realized with utter despair that she was in love.
With Mr. O’Brien.
Oh, dear.