Chapter Twenty-Five
Mr. Mornay stood watching with a mild scowl while the physician finished up the messy business of bleeding his wife. Ariana had been silent for the duration but now emitted a little soft moan, at which her protective husband flew to her side and took one of her hands. So hot. So abominably hot!
When the doctor’s assistant went to empty the basin with that precious dark fluid, Freddie came in holding a salver with a letter upon it.
“I want no correspondence now,” Mornay said, curtly.
“It is from Carlton House, sir.” He held out the silver tray with a single, thickly folded note.
Mr. Mornay sighed and took it, saying, “Hold off.” The butler waited. Phillip pried open the sealing wax and began to read. It was a command, thinly disguised as an invitation, for the Mornays to join the Regent at his Pavilion at Brighton. He was entertaining at the palace for a few weeks, and wanted Phillip and his wife to join his company—as soon as possible.
With a grave countenance, Mr. Mornay crumpled the paper into a ball and tossed it into the fireplace. “Freddie, have my secretary send the reply that Mrs. Mornay is ill, and that we can go nowhere at present.”
“Er, sir, I beg your pardon, but there is no secretary in the house. Shall I send for one?”
“Can you not write?” the master asked, making Freddie’s eyes open in surprise.
“I sir? To the prince?”
“Yes, yes, so long as you can write legibly!”
“Yes, sir.” He stood up straighter, resigned to what was coming.
“Tell him it is the fever;” he paused, and Freddie, from long acquaintance with the man, knew to wait. “And ask him to pray.”
“Yes, sir.” He bowed and went down to the business office. He felt very inadequate to the task at hand—a butler writing to the Prince Regent! He was so inured to his position at Aspindon that he seldom felt his own importance as butler of the establishment, but today it was borne in upon him in a new way. Taking a piece of foolscap and a plume pen, he opened the inkwell and dipped the pen. In his best hand he wrote, “To His Royal Highness, The Prince Regent.” He might have labored longer for such an illustrious recipient, but he needed to get the missive done to send back with the royal’s messenger.
With the note finished, he opened a jar of blotting sand and sprinkled it liberally over the page. After shaking off the excess, he folded it twice, lit a wafer of sealing wax with a tinder box, and dropped a good blob of wax—he used black, as if it would stress the point of the reply—and pressed the master’s seal, a tiny imprint of the initials “P” and “M” in an ornate style onto the wax. He had signed the letter, “Your Humble and Obedient Servant, Mr. W. Frederick, Butler.”
When Mr. Frederick found the prince’s messenger in the kitchens having a bite—a place deemed safe from the illness, he gave the note to Cook, who was told to wipe it clean of Freddie’s breath or touch. (Who knew how the sickness might be passed?) And so the man was sent on his way with a fresh horse from the Mornay stable. The bother was that the groom was not in the stables, and neither, Freddie noticed, was Tornado! Surely Rudson hadn’t dared to mount that devil—Mr. Mornay wouldn’t like it. Dashed presumption, that’s what it was. Not to mention taking his life in his hands.
Freddy was no equine expert, but he’d had to choose a mount for the messenger. Earlier when the man complained that no groom had appeared to see to his horse, Freddy himself had been forced to take the animal to the stables. Now he told the man, “We have only a skeleton crew, here, sir, as our mistress has the fever.”
“So your cook says,” he replied. And he galloped off apace, it seemed to Freddy, as if happy to be escaping the vicinity. But where was Mr. Rudson, the head groom? And what had he done with Tornado?
When Mr. Rudson’s eyes blinked open, pain assailed him. When he tried to move, aches shouted their presence, and he groaned. He was outdoors beneath a tall tree—it all came flooding back. While he slowly managed to get to his feet and brush himself off, he reviewed the events which had landed him there—literally.
Tornado, after getting into a frenzied and wild gallop, had begun to buck at odd moments, trying to rid himself of his rider. Rudson grasped the pommel, the animal’s mane, the saddle, anything and everything to keep his seat. Up hill and down he’d hung on grimly, knowing that to do otherwise was certain death. What had possessed him to take this horse?
If Mr. Mornay found out, he’d be a ruined man. That was, if he survived Tornado, who was doing his brown best to throw Mr. Rudson from his seat. The horse was a sly devil, too, for he began to close in on tree trunks, trying to graze the man’s legs, doing anything to make him lose his hold on the reins or the saddle.
Finally, with a surprising and desperate buck that went into a spin, Mr. Rudson had gone flying off the seat as smooth as a stone flung upon the water. And then all had gone black. And now here he was. Freezing from cold, far from help and sore as a carpenter’s thumb. There was no sign of Tornado. As he took his first slow and painful steps back toward the house, he supposed he was lucky to be alive. That was something, anyway.
Tornado made his way back to the stables at his leisure. He found his hay bin and helped himself. His stall was shut and he whinnied in annoyance, but eventually settled upon standing just outside it, munching hay as though nothing at all had occurred.
Mr. Rudson, still two miles from the house and stables, could walk but slowly. He’d be sore for days. With any luck, that devil of a horse would be back at the stables when he got there, and he was sure, exceedingly sure, that he would never mount that demon again.
Ariana’s hair clung to her face and neck despite Mr. Mornay’s attempts to wash it back periodically with a damp cloth. When she wasn’t tossing and turning restlessly, she either moaned or spoke out in delirium—a thing which Mr. Mornay discovered he could barely stand. It wasn’t her calling for him that bothered him, but that he couldn’t reassure her of his presence. Her suffering had quickly reduced him to speechless dismay.
He was entrenched by her bedside; Mrs. Hamilton’s pleas for him to rest, to allow her to watch the mistress, fell on deaf ears. The housekeeper found it heartrending, when Mrs. Mornay chanced to call his name during her moments of unconscious speech, to see him leaning over her and trying to reach her, to let her know he was there. It was useless.
In response to her worsening condition, Mr. Speckman insisted his treatment was having its effect. “Mrs. Mornay will soon reach a crisis, sir; and when it has passed, she will begin to recover.” The husband dared not ask, And if it does not pass? If it is too much for her?
By the third day of enduring the sight of his wife in such a condition, he began doubting the wisdom of the medical man’s judgment. “How many people have you given this treatment to, and did most of them recover?” he asked.
“Oh, sir, I’ve treated dozens of such cases! I daresay most people do recover. It’s the weak ones, the aged and the infirm, who succumb; infants also do poorly.”
“And this is the usual progression? This is what you are accustomed to seeing?”
Mr. Speckman looked thoughtfully at the patient. “Her case is undoubtedly severe, sir; she did grow rapidly worse since the onset of symptoms—.”
“And so in fact you are not certain that my wife will recover.”
“Certain, sir?” The doctor drew back at the fierce stare from Mr. Mornay. “Only God is certain.” He eyed the husband worriedly. “I daresay you are exhausted, sir, and in need of rest.”
Exhaustion was the least of Mr. Mornay’s worries. A terror had fallen upon him, such as he’d never known. He could not stand to lose Ariana.
Mrs. Hamilton stopped in with a tray of light refreshments, but the master waved it away.
“But you’ve eaten nothing, sir,” she said, blinking back tears. She met the eyes of the physician. “He’ll fall sick like the mistress, sir, if he doesn’t keep up his strength! You must make him eat!”
Mr. Speckman frowned. He was hard pressed to get the man to leave the room for any reason whatsoever.
“Mr. Mornay, you will be of no use here,” he said, finally, if you do not strengthen yourself. Little good your wife’s recovery will be, if you then fall ill, and in a weakened state; you’ll leave her a widow. Do not treat her so shabbily. Go and eat something, man!”
This speech made its mark, for Mr. Mornay finally agreed.
“Thank heavens!” declared Mrs. Hamilton, drying her eyes. But suddenly the tray with its rich brown stew wasn’t good enough. She left it for the doctor, hurrying ahead of the master to alert Cook to prepare something special for him. “Wait you in the morning room, sir!” she cried, as she disappeared down the corridor. “We’ll have a dinner for you directly!”
Mr. Mornay, however, headed to his study. Although the house was empty of guests, he could not face a public room where only days earlier his wife had enjoyed such merriment.
The housekeeper found him, for she knew her master very well, and set a tray of meat and cheese before him with a large pudding. “Here you go, sir,” she said, in a gentle voice. Moving aside the ponderous family Bible that was often to be seen open on that desk, she put a glass down, saying, “I’ve made you a good stiff drink, sir, to help you bear your sorrows, I daresay.”
She wished she could linger to ensure that he ate, but he would never allow it. Five years earlier, the Mornays had given her a second chance at life—when they might have had her arrested for theft! Her gratitude knew no bounds. They were family to her, now. Mr. Mornay was her master and employer, but to Mrs. Hamilton, he was her own flesh and blood, the mistress and children, too.
He looked down at the glass stupidly for a moment. One brow went up. “Take it back,” he said. “Pour it out. Pour it out, or down your own throat if you like, but I don’t want it.”
“But sir, Cook assures me it is a favourite of yours—.”
“That is nothing to the point, Mrs. Hamilton.”
She stared at him in wonder.
He said, “I have a cup to drink, apparently, that has already been given me. And it is the only one I shall sip from until it is emptied, I’m afraid.”
Mrs. Hamilton searched his desk with her eyes. She saw no other beverage. Tears came into her eyes. “My dear sir!” she cried, leaning against the desk weakly, for she was that overcome by seeing him in such a sorry state, “Allow me to have Mr. Speckman prescribe some laudanum for you!”
He realized that she did not get his meaning. “I am not out of my senses. I am in the midst of a trial, and I shall see it through. I shall see it through with the strength God gives me. I want nothing other than the weakest port, do you understand?”
“Oh!” She came to her full height again, quite rejuvenated.
He looked at her in surprise. “Well, fetch it!”
“Right away, sir!” She left with a sniffle, but it was a happy sniffle. The mistress was still poorly, but at least the master was holding up…well…masterfully.”
Lord Horatio had been given the family coach to get himself to Middlesex. His footman was at the door of Aspindon to announce his arrival, but he climbed out impatiently. It was long into the evening, the house seemed dark and quiet; he hoped the Mornays were not away. But the door opened at last, and a little wisp of a maid peered out at them and then bobbed a curtsey. His footman stood aside.
“Is Mr. Mornay at home?” Horatio asked, starting to enter the house, only the little maid moved to block his path. He stopped in surprise.
“Aye, sir.”
“You are speaking to Lord Horatio,” the footman said, without a blink.
“Beggin’ yer pardon, yer lordship,” Molly said.
“Well..may I come in? I am here to see your master.”
“Beggin’ yer pardon, yer lordship,” she said again, “but mistress is ill, and no one’s to come into the house, sir—yer lordship.”
“Ill? What sort of sickness?”
“She’s got the fever, sir—yer lord—”
“That’s quite all right,” he interjected quickly. “I’ll take my chances. Let him know I’m here, will you?”
“Yes, yer lordship, sir.” Molly’s wide eyes were almost comical, except that they were alarmed. She moved aside and let him enter the house. He stood looking around at the great hall. Mr. Frederick came briskly through a doorway and saw Lord Horatio.
“Why it’s Lord Horatio! How do you, my lord?” he said, bowing.
“Excellent, Freddie. How’s yourself?” He held out his hat and cane, but Freddie made no move to take it. “Oh, I know, I know, Mrs. Mornay is ill. Well, I’m not leaving, so tell your cantankerous master that I’m here.”
“He’ll bark at us for giving you leave to enter.”
“There’s nothing for it, I’m sent by the prince, in fact.” He was still holding out his effects, and Freddie reluctantly took them, saying, “By the prince? That’s worse, yet.”
Lord Horatio had to chuckle. “Sorry, old fellow, but I need to see him.”
“Very good, m’lord” he replied, but his voice was doubtful. He led the man to a drawing room and left him with a bow. “If you need anything, my lord—”
“No, no, thank you, old man. Just bring me your master.”
About eight minutes went by and then Freddie returned to the room. His face was drawn.
“Well? Did he bite your head off?”
“My lord—.” Freddie’s sober face finally caused a frown upon his lordship’s. “Mr. Mornay cannot be disturbed. Mrs. Mornay has reached a crisis in her sickness, sir.” The butler was blinking quite a lot
“Upon my word!” exclaimed his lordship. “’Tis that bad, is it?”
“We may lose her, sir.”
“Good heavens.” His frown deepened. “What can I do?”
Prayers were ended at the vicarage that evening when the Bartons arrived; for Mr. Barton had become adept at knowing just what time it was safe to return without having to endure the “religious zeal” of the vicar, as he put it. They had only been been welcomed and taken their seats when Lord Horatio showed up unexpectedly.
The cook at Aspindon still sent victuals daily to Warwickdon as the master had ordered, with the result that the guests were taking the finest tea with biscuits and fruit ices when his lordship was announced. Sykes, in a voice that said he understood the importance of this guest, a lord, declared his arrival in stentorian tones.
The room fell silent except for Miss Barton, who gasped and actually dropped her biscuit onto the carpet. Lord Horatio saw her; his mouth gaped open and then shut again in fast succession. Freddie had directed him to the vicarage to inform the family of Mrs. Mornay’s dire condition, but he had not expected to find Anne there!
Mr. O’Brien rang for the housekeeper and then welcomed his newest guest.
Lord Horatio stared at him for a moment, and then said, “O—O’Malley!”
“O’Brien, your lordship.”
“Yes, O’Brien! By Jove, it is you, isn’t it?”
“Yes, your lordship.” He smiled gently. “Please—join us.”
Mrs. Persimmon hurriedly located yet another cup and saucer, though already there was china from two different sets in use to accommodate so many. Horatio endured all the introductions placidly—he and Barton knew each other enough to forego the formality—and then, when it was finally Miss Barton’s turn, he bowed low over her hand, and kissed it. “I believe I am acquainted with Miss Barton,” he said, staring into her eyes.
Mr. Barton watched with a sharp eye, but was silent. Beatrice was puzzled that his customary boisterousness in company seemed to have deserted him.
“What brings you to the vicarage, my lord?” Mrs. Royleforst asked, putting her finger on the question everyone in that room—with the exception of Anne, the curate and Mrs. Forsythe—wondered at.
Lord Horatio forced his eyes away from Miss Barton’s face and said, “Well, that’s just it. I’m afraid I have news from Aspindon of the most dire nature.”
“No!” cried Beatrice. “Do not say—”
Mr. O’Brien looked at her with concern and went unbidden to her side; the whole room held its collective breath. He said, “Mrs. Mornay has reached a crisis in her illness. Mr. Mornay asks you to pray.” He hesitated, as though the message had to be pulled from his memory. “To pray very hard.” He felt strange delivering such a message. Lord Horatio could not remember asking anyone in his life to pray for anything.
Beatrice could almost have hugged Mr. O’Brien with relief, for she had thought surely that Lord Horatio had brought the message of her sister’s death. Being at a crisis in her illness was not exceedingly better, but Ariana at least was alive!
His lordship was terribly worried about Mrs. Mornay, but at sight of Anne—so unexpected!—all he could think of was his other mission. “Mr. O’Brien,” he said, right in front of everyone. “I have come here with a special license signed by the archbishop. I would like you to marry me to Miss Barton at your soonest convenience!”
“Oh!” Miss Barton stood up, with one hand against her waist, and stared at his lordship as though she was not aware of other people in the room.
Mr. Barton took a deep breath, looking enormously surprised. He came to his feet, went to Lord Horatio and shook his hand, saying, “Well done, your lordship! Very well done.” He looked at his sister and, when she finally turned her eyes from her beloved, nodded at her.
Mrs. Royleforst’s little eyes were as wide as they could get. Miss Bluford’s eyes, since they were larger than her mistress’s, were even wider. She asked, without realizing perhaps, that she was speaking aloud, “Do you mean you approve of this match?” Her voice had come out in a high, reedy tone, and everyone turned to gaze at her in surprise. She looked from Mr. O’Brien to Mr. Barton and back.
Mrs. Royleforst seemed astonished that her companion had voiced such a concern—or perhaps she was astonished that the lady had the audacity to voice anything at all. But, after giving Miss Bluford a look of surprise, she said, “Here, here! I second that question!”
Miss Bluford gave her a look of sheer adoration. Instead of the companion agreeing with her employer, for this one occasion Mrs..Royleforst had championed her companion’s opinion.
“He has a special license,” said Mr. O’Brien. “I approve wholeheartedly.”
Mr. Barton added, “As do I.” He glanced at Anne and said, “Yes; with all my heart.”
Mrs. Royleforst said, “But what of Miss Barton? Surely she does not wish to accept a man who does not propose but in a roundabout way; who barges in on genteel company of a night with a license in hand, indeed!”
Miss Barton, blinking back tears, said, “I do accept him!” A tear escaped and slid down her face. To Horatio she said, “You received my note, then?”
He nodded. “It gave me the courage to come after you.”
“Courage?” she asked. “When I always hoped you would!”
Beatrice was smiling despite her embarrassment at this extraordinary turn of events. A lord with a special license! Come to marry their quiet Miss Barton!
“And so you will marry us?” Lord Horatio turned to the clergyman.
“After I examine that license, yes. Tomorrow in the church, perhaps.”
Miss Barton could contain herself no longer and at this she flew to the side of her beloved. He received her with one arm about her. Their eyes met and held fast. Miss Barton seemed to be smiling and crying at the same time.
“I am greatly obliged to you, Mr. O’Brien,” she said, through happy tears. “And to you, Mrs. Forsythe!”
“We are both greatly obliged!” echoed his lordship.
Beatrice wondered why they were obliged to her mother, but one look at Mrs. Forsythe’s face told her that, while this marriage was all well and good, they must remember Ariana.
“I rejoice for you,” said Mrs. Forsythe, with a sad smile. She turned to their vicar. “My daugh-ter,” she cried, “has reached a crisis! We must pray again.”
“Of course!” said Mr. O’Brien. Mrs. Forsythe stood, and with a look around as if she were daring anyone to cavil, she dropped to her knees and began to pray silently. Beatrice joined her, falling to her knees beside her mother. Miss Barton, tugging lightly at Horatio’s sleeve, motioned for him to come, and they, too, took places beside the others.
Lord Horatio had the look of a man unaccustomed to prayer, but he knelt beside Anne and folded his hands. He’d always been fond of Ariana; it would tear him up to find happiness with his bride only to witness Mornay lose his.
Mr. O’Brien, on his knees like the others, opened his Bible. But there was one person not kneeling—and an empty space in their circle. He looked over at him expectantly. Mr. Barton grudgingly moved forward, but at the last minute stopped. Without a word, he turned and left the room. In a minute, they heard the noise of the front door opening and shutting. In another minute, Mrs. Persimmon glanced into the room, and saw the unmistakable sign of a prayer meeting—just like at the Methodist chapel, she thought, amazed. Imagine if Mr. O’Brien was sympathetic to Methodism! If so, she had no argument with it. Her husband, God rest his soul, had smiled upon Methodism. She came and fell to her knees, making the little circle of people complete.
Mr. O’Brien said, “Let us agree in prayer for the safety and recovery of Mrs. Mornay.” Beatrice was suddenly blinking back tears.
Mr. O’Brien saw her face. He said, looking directly at her, “If two of you shall agree on earth as touching any thing that they shall ask, it shall be done for them of my Father which is in heaven. This is the Word of our Lord.”
“Amen,” said all, in unison.
The vicar gave a little earnest, encouraging nod to Beatrice. It was as though she could hear his voice from the day before when he’d said, “You must trust God’s faithfulness!’ And, “Do not borrow trouble.” Ariana had reached a crisis, but she had not died, yet. There was still hope. And here she was participating in a prayer of agreement for her recovery. Not all such prayers were answered as people wished, she knew; but still she must have faith.
“It shall be done for them of my Father which is in heaven.” She must dare to believe it.
Mr. O’Brien said, “Pray now, each of you, from the bottom of your heart, for Mrs. Mornay. Let us take hands with one another and be in agreement in faith, for her recovery.”
Miss Barton and Lord Horatio looked at each other askance. Miss Barton shrugged. This night had been an answer to every prayer that she had uttered of late and so she thought, Why not? She took Beatrice’s hand.
The curate led the little gathering, praying in heartfelt tones of petition and yet with humility. He prayed for strength and fortitude for the patient and her husband; for Ariana’s speedy return to health; and for all of the Mornay household and its tenants. As he spoke, the others began to join with their own petitions. Tears rolled down Beatrice’s cheeks as she begged her heavenly Father to have mercy on her sister. Their voices reached a crescendo of earnest petitions and then slowly quieted.
Mr. O’Brien ended with as proper an Anglican prayer as could ever be said, as it came straight from the prayer book. “Through Christ, and with Christ, and in Christ, all honor and glory are yours, Almighty God and Father, in the unity of the Holy Spirit, for ever and ever. Amen.” When Beatrice looked up, his tall head was still bowed in a reverential attitude. She felt so grateful to him. Suddenly it became an ardent admiration. How could she ever have thought of a Mr. Barton?
Was it Mr. Barton who opened his house to Beatrice and her family? No! Had Mr. Barton taken himself to Aspindon to find out her sister’s condition, just so they would know it? Would Mr. Barton think to pray for Ariana, or be at all sufficient to lead them in prayer on her behalf? Had he been a beacon of strength and quiet assurance in this time of sorrow? No,no,no!
How foolishly she had spoken to Mr. O’Brien in the carriage yesterday! Why had she mentioned Mr. Barton at all? There was nothing in him she wanted. Neither his wealth, his social connexions, or even his buying the Manor House could ever make her happy. Nor could she please him.
It seemed that her grasp of both men’s character had suddenly crystallized and become clear—all in a day. She gazed at Mr. O’Brien, thoughtful, handsome, Mr. O’Brien, and wondered if it was a day too late.