Chapter Twenty-Six
Mr. Barton left the vicarage in disgust. That Lord Horatio had showed up to claim his sister’s hand should have thrown him into the best of spirits, for it was the very thing he had not for a moment believed possible. Against all odds, the man had honourable intentions and meant to marry Anne. It was a weight lifted from his shoulders. He no longer had to worry about social disgrace for his sister or that his name would be tainted as a result. Some might whisper when the child came early…but that was nothing at the moment.
The thing that sent him from the house in disgust was the prayer meeting. O’Brien was an Anglican minister, but dashed if he wasn’t actin’ like a Methodist or a Dissenter! Why, it wasn’t respectable. It might have been heresy! How the others had gone right along with him as if it wasn’t the least unusual thing in the world, he could not fathom. People were supposed to pray in church. He knew it did not look well in Beatrice’s eyes, but he could not bring himself to kneel in that circle. It was impossible.
Even worse, Mr. Barton was irked by the reason behind the impromptu prayer gathering. If Mrs. Mornay was at a crisis, then Mrs. Mornay was deathly ill. And if Mrs. Mornay died, there was no longer anything to tie Miss Forsythe to the Paragon. Knowing Mornay, he’d have nothing to do with the family. He’d no doubt retreat into his old caustic nature and become a recluse—or a terror. Either way, there would be no advantage for him in marrying Beatrice.
He felt sorry for it. He liked Miss Forsythe. She was a good-natured girl, prone to enjoy a laugh, and pretty to boot. But when she’d been family to the Paragon, he liked her better. Or if she’d had her own fortune, say, ten thousand pounds or so, he’d have found her irresistible. Without either one, he was afraid he could not afford her—not unless he was prepared to give up his nights at the clubs, which he was not.
He reached the Manor, deliberating on what his next move would be. Mornay was still in quarantine and there wasn’t a deuced thing for him to do in Middlesex. He was itching to return to London. Dash it, but this country life was deadly dull! He was sorely tempted to drive himself back to the city that very night. But highwaymen would be a threat; and he didn’t relish going it alone. Besides, he ought to be around to ensure that his sister got properly wed.
He had a drink and lost himself in thought before the fire. When Anne came home in the escort of his lordship later that night, she was hoping to question her brother, to understand what had caused his earlier disappearance, but not much information was to be had from Mr. Barton by that time. In fact, he was asleep, spread-eagled, on the floor in front of the fire. An empty wine bottle lay beside him. He was oblivious to the most ardent shaking and to all efforts to make him stir.
When Agatha and Randolph Pellham, “Aunt and Uncle Pellham,” received a letter from Julia Forsythe telling them about her daughter taking ill, there was only one thing to do. Ariana had the London fever, Julia said; so without knowing another thing about it, whether she had just got the fever, or had suffered it for a week—Aunt Pellham must needs see the girl.
Mrs. Pellham detested leaving her house. She detested travel of any sort. But she had a special fondness for Ariana. It was so strong a fondness that it was stronger than her dislike of travel or leaving home; and so fly to her niece she must. She would leave her nest in the lake district for her sake.
Her decision, once made, had to be executed with utmost haste. She therefore had her servants in such a flurry of activity and tasks as would make the most seasoned housekeeper quake. Mrs. Pellham was not satisfied merely to relieve herself of instructions and orders, but had to oversee them as they were carried out: the packing of their trunks, the closing up of the house, the readying of their coach and four, and the preparation of a basket of victuals to take for the journey. Her close eye upon the proceedings gave Mrs. Ruskin, the housekeeper, the headache.
But woolen stockings were donned, hats and coats and waistcoats and jewellery—Mrs. Pellham never went anywhere without her jewellery—all packed up and stowed in the boot of the coach. Carriage blankets were readied, bricks heated, and even a small vial of brandy—in case the cold became too ruinous to Mr. Pellham’s constitution.
When all was stowed and ready to go, the coachman was hunched atop the vehicle in a heavy many-caped coat and a hat so ponderous hat his face could not be seen. His orders were to go with all possible haste to Aspindon of Middlesex. Beside him sat Haines, equally prepared for the cold—and for hoodlums. He had learned to use a weapon since the unfortunate events of the past when Lord Wingate had abducted his mistress at point of pistol. He now prided himself on his accuracy, and Mrs. Pellham considered him indispensable to her comfort when travelling.
In addition to her dislike of travel, Mrs. Pellham had an aversion to sick beds. Thus her journey and her object were rather extraordinary. Forefront to her mind, however, was the thought that she must be of assistance to her beautiful (though very particular) niece; and to see the children again. She adored her great-nephew, and had not yet met Miranda. There was no question, therefore, no qualm too great, that would prevent her going. And where she went, of course Randolph went also.
She had her leather-bound Book of Common Prayer for the journey, and held it in her gloved hands for most of the ride. Even if she didn’t open it, the sight of the worn black leather tome in her possession was reassuring. But she’d heard the reports of the fever in the metropolis and the great numbers of dead in its wake. She dreaded to think of her niece suffering from that horrid malady.
To this day the memory of the Season five years earlier when Mrs. Pellham (she’d been Mrs. Bentley, then) had sponsored Ariana in London was one of the highlights of her life. It was an annus mirabilis, a miraculous year, when she and her niece had been welcome in the finest drawing rooms of the aristocracy; when Ariana had done the impossible and snagged the famous Mr. Mornay for a husband! And she, Mrs. Bentley, a widow for nigh ten years, had finally agreed to marry Mr. Randolph Pellham, her dearest and most loyal companion. They had been happily together since. Mrs. Pellham had even come to prefer their quiet life in the Lake District to the hustle and bustle of town.
The mercy of it was that the Pellhams had already been preparing to make the move to Hanover Square for the Season, when news of Ariana’s illness arrived. (Though Mrs. Pellham no longer lived for the social calendar, she didn’t mind an occasional excursion to the metropolis—and well before the Season started, to ensure the best seamstresses were at her disposal.) So they were able to be packed and off betimes.
“My dear Mr. Pellham,” said the lady, when they were both comfortably seated among a canopy of blankets and pillows, with heated bricks beneath their feet.
“Yes, my dear Mrs. P?”
“I must confess, Randolph, to having a most unnerving and unnatural feeling of dread concerning Ariana.”
“Mrs. P., you must not distress yourself so. Allow me to read from the prayer book, and you, rest your head upon me here, with this pillow.” He moved a small travelling pillow against his side for her head to rest upon. “I was about to read the Collect, myself, you know.”
“May we pray together first, Randolph? I despise this terrible suspicion! I must vanquish it—or rather, ask the Saviour to.”
“Oh, it is like that, is it? Yes, we must pray, then.” He took one of her hands, and bowed his head. He said a small prayer—one might even call it a “prayer of agreement.” Mr. Pellham’s faith had grown along with his wife’s over time, so that to turn to the prayer book or Bible was second nature to them now. To pray together was not just a duty but a privilege. They had seen the effectual power of prayer too many times to doubt its use.
“You are such a comfort to me, Randolph.”
“As you are to me, Mrs.P.”
They travelled on; he read to her, taking selections from the prayer book, the Bible, and then from a book of sermons. Next to travel books, sermons were Mr. Pellham’s favourite reading material.
Mr. Mornay was losing hope. His wife’s delirium had ended but was replaced with an ominous silence. Her previously restless limbs were still; her face, as though asleep, and yet it was much worse than a normal sleep, as nothing could rouse her. His eye fell upon a little framed bit of verse on the bedside table, something Ariana herself had written out with painstaking neatness and framed. He picked it up on a whim, and then returned to her side. Who knew if she could hear him? She had loved this enough to take the trouble to write it out. He read it aloud:
When on her Maker's bosom
The new-born earth was laid,
And nature's opening blossom
Its fairest bloom display’d;
When all with fruits and flowers,
The laughing soil was dressed,
And Eden's fragrant bowers
Received their human guest;
No sin his face defiling,
The heir of nature stood,
And God, benignly smiling,
Beheld that all was good.
Yet in that hour of blessing
A single want was known;
A wish the heart distressing,
For Adam was alone!
O God of pure affection,
By men and saints adored,
Who gavest Thy protection
To Cana’s nuptial board.
May such Thy bounties ever
To wedded love be shown,
And no rude hand dissever
Whom thou hast linked as one!
--Reginald Heber
Ariana did not stir or show a sign of change. With a deep sigh, he fell to his knees. “O God! Where is your protection, indeed! Do not dissever what you have linked as one!” A sense of hopelessness washed over him. Helplessness, too, for he could do nothing to make his wife improve. A slow panic began to rise within his breast. He had often stated that a man needed only God to get by in life; it seemed as nonsense to him now. He needed more than God—he needed Ariana! He couldn’t face life again without her.
He studied her face, very white and pale, despite the heat that emanated from her skin. He was losing her. He was losing Ariana! He must do something! It was impossible suddenly, for him to remain helplessly by her side for another moment.
He hurried from the room heedless of what was in his path; falling, bumping into furniture, and then into the columns at the top of the stairs. He was like a blind man, like one drunk. He couldn’t see because of tears, stuck in his eyes like scales. He could not weep—but he must put his hand to something or he’d go mad! He made a fist, moving as though he would slam it against the wall, then against a bust, but he stopped, looked at his fist in despair, and dropped it. He rounded the bottom of the stairs.
He thought of the Taller family. If only Mr. Taller would show up at his doorstep this very minute! He could kill the man! It was his fault! Why had he not come forward with the truth earlier? Why had he not let them know in time, before Ariana went near them! It was his fault, by God! If he lost Ariana, Mr. Taller was to blame for it!
He was slowing down, for he moved only on the energy of rage, but it was fast turning to despair. Where was God now, when he needed him? Where?
Losing energy quickly, he stumbled to the front hall. Mr. Frederick appeared in a doorway but held back, watching his master with a grim expression. Mr. Mornay picked up a small statue sitting upon a tall urn. He looked at it; then threw it to the ground. The butler’s lips compressed even more. He’d never seen his master like this in all his years of service; not even when the old Mr. Mornay had died, or Phillip’s mother; and not even when his brother Nigel died.
Just then the knocker sounded on the door. Mr. Mornay looked up, as if struck. Mr. Frederick hurried out, but his master saw him and said, “No. I’ll get it.”
Mr. Frederick stopped where he was, and watched with an expression of sad regret.
When Mr. Mornay reached the front door and flung it open, there, to his utter astonishment, stood Mr. Taller! The very man he was feeling positively murderous toward.
“You!” he said, accusingly.
“I ‘ad to come,” the man muttered. “I ‘av to know. ’ow is she?”
Mr. Mornay threw himself out the door so that Mr. Taller had to back away hurriedly. He put one arm against one of the wide columns that flanked the doorway, as if he needed support. He stared with a terrible look at the cottager. “You’ve killed her, if you must know! You’ve killed her!”
While Mr. Taller’s face broke up into tears, Mr. Mornay added bitterly, “I’ll have you locked up for this. Will you find Newgate to your liking, do you think?”
Mr. Taller shook his head. “I didn’, sir! I didn’ kill her! Don’t say as I did!”
“You and your cowardly lies!” spat out Phillip, going right up in the other man’s face. Mr. Taller looked horrified. His shoulders rocked with silent tears, but he gave way to a real sob. Watching him, Mr. Mornay slowly regained control of himself. He had wanted to strike the man, but when it came down to it, he knew too well that it was wrong.
“She’s dead, then? Truly?” He looked as distraught as Mr. Mornay.
“Not quite.”
Mr. Taller’s face changed. “An’ what’re you doin’ down ‘ere, then, eh?” Angrily, he continued, “She’s got life in ‘er—there’s hope! Ma Mary is gettin’ better. Ma MaryAnn’s better! Your wife may get better. But you should be wi’ ‘er, that’s what!”
Mr. Mornay took a deep breath. Taller was right. And his wife was improving? His daughter had improved? Why hadn’t anyone told him? That meant there was hope for Ariana! He turned and dashed back into the house and up the stairs.
Freddie stared, surprised. But this had to be good. Mr. Mornay had energy again.
At his wife’s bedside, Mr. Mornay saw her still unconscious and his hope faltered. He bent over her and felt for a pulse; then, with some small relief, knelt down at the bedside. He took one of her hands and clutched it and kissed it. “Forgive me!” he said, both to Ariana and to heaven. Studying his wife’s face, he saw her as she had been, always with a ready smile, with love in her eyes for him and for the children. He dropped his head in another prayer. “Don’t take her, Lord. I beg you not to take her. But I trust her to You; to Your mercy.”
Mr. Speckman came into the sick room. He had taken a brief absence to eat. He frowned, seeing Mr. Mornay on his knees by the bed. He, too, felt helpless. He pulled out his watch fob and read the face of the timepiece, but his frown only deepened.
Ariana lay on the pillow in the exact position Phillip had left her in, near an hour since. The physician sat by the counterpane sadly looking out over the wintry countryside view. He turned when Phillip woke up in a chair by the bed, however, and rose from his seat.
“Has there been a change?”
“None, sir.”
Phillip looked down at his wife and touched her brow. She burned with fever. The touch of his hand made her turn her head and moan softly, though no words could be discerned. It tore at his heart. He wanted to take her up in his arms. But what good would it do? He sat down beside her helplessly.
Mr. Speckman looked at him sadly, and then turned away. He directed his gaze back outside the window to give the man a degree of privacy. But he shook his head. He’d seen such cases before, and seldom did the sufferer recover. And such a young woman! It made his own heart ache, but there was nothing he could do to help her. She was entirely in God’s hands.
The Pellham’s coach pulled up to Aspindon House early the following morning. Haines had a time trying to get someone awake, though his master and mistress were still comfortably snuggled together in the vehicle. Finally, when no amount of banging the knocker produced a response, he was getting ready to inform the Pellhams that they would have to wait for the house to stir, when the door opened.
It was Mr. Mornay. Haines stared at him stupidly for a moment. Such a change in a man he had never witnessed! Mr. Mornay looked to be the one fallen ill. His hair was disheveled, his face had some days’ growth of stubble, he wore no neckcloth, and his white cambric shirt looked as though he’d slept in it. In short, Mr. Mornay was a mess. It was rather a shock, even for someone who had not seen him in many months.
Mrs. Pellham came up behind Haines, followed by her husband. Mr. Mornay greeted them tiredly and without a trace of surprise, though he hadn’t known they were en route. Inside, Mrs. Pellham stopped beside her nephew-in-law and gave him a sharp, appraising look. He half-expected a set-down, but all she said finally was, “How is she?”
His ghastly appearance was a fright, to be sure; but even Mrs. Pellham knew that what it signified must be far more frightening, indeed. Ariana was doing poorly, as she feared!
Mr. Mornay was unable to speak, and could only shake his head in the negative. Mrs. Pellham was already removing her bonnet and shawl, but he found his voice to say, “You mustn’t stay here; it is contagious. I apologize for the lack of hospitality—.”
But Mrs. Pellham ignored him. “I have come to see my niece; and I will see her.”
Mr. Mornay eyed her for a moment uncertainly. Freddie came out, still buttoning his waistcoat, and joined the small group in the hall.
Mr. Pellham said, “Show me to a guest bedchamber, sir, with room enough for my wife and me; we are staying.” His firm tone conveyed that the decision had been made.
Freddie looked to his master who said nothing, so he bowed and said, “This way, if you please, sir.” It encouraged him that new people had come; fresh blood which was not already discouraged or exhausted like the rest of them. He added, to his master, “Perhaps you can take some rest now, sir. With Mrs. Pellham here—.”
Mr. Mornay turned an acid eye upon his servant, who wisely dropped the matter and turned away to take Mr. Pellham to his quarters. Meanwhile, a footman appeared, who hurried to get the guests’ luggage. The house was cold, and it was early morning and everyone was tired, and Ariana was sick. They should all have been miserable. But even Mr. Mornay felt a twinge of hope. For what reason? There was none. Only more people to share the misery with. But even sharing misery was better than not, it seemed.
“Take me to her!” Mrs. Pellham’s authoritative voice stirred some energy within the man.
“This way.” The morning light had grown enough to make his taper of no use, and he blew it out as they climbed the stairs.
Inside the bedchamber, Mrs. Pellham’s shrewd eyes took in the situation at once; the face of the doctor, worried; his assistant, looking sad as death; the gel on the bed, smothered in blankets and sweat; the heat in the room. She opened her eyes rather wide and said to Mr. Mornay, “I am willing to help, but you must remove these men from the room, if you would, sir.” Mr. Mornay eyed her with some surprise, but he looked at the physician, whose face was registering shock at such a thing, and said, “Do as she says.”
“You desire that I leave the patient, sir?” he asked, incredulously. He and his assistant wore deeply disapproving frowns. Mr. Mornay said, “Go to the kitchens and have some refreshment. Leave us for now.” Mr. Speckman glanced at Ariana. Then, still looking thoroughly indignant, he nodded at his assistant, and they strode from the room.
The moment the door closed upon them, Mrs. Pellham, said, “Get some buckets of water up here at once!” Mr. Mornay had been growing in his distrust of the doctor’s methods and he did not so much as question her. He grasped the bell pull and yanked it twice. He went to the windows and threw them open as far as they would go.
“My thought exactly!” said Mrs. Pellham, approvingly. She was already pulling off the heavy blankets that were upon Ariana, and she was so disgusted that she merely threw them to the floor. She saw the basin of water beside the bed, and the cloth, and wrung it out and placed it across Ariana’s forehead.
“Is ice available?” she asked, just as a bewildered Haines appeared at the door, followed quickly by Fotch. “Gentlemen, we need water; douse the fire; and we need ice; on the double!” Both men seemed energized by the requests—finally, there was something they could do! They turned and hurried off to get the supplies.
Mrs. Pellham studied her much-loved niece for a moment, then demanded, “How long has it been since Ariana has taken any liquid?”
He thought for a moment. “Hours.”
“Hold her head up for me,” she ordered. There was a decanter of water and a glass, and Mrs. Pellham poured a little out and sat down upon the edge of the bed. Mr. Mornay sat down himself, raising his wife so that she rested against him. He held her head up. Mrs. Pellham forced her mouth open enough to pour drops of water to the side of her throat.
“A reflexive action will cause her to swallow,” she murmured. She felt sad, however. Ariana’s beautiful little mouth was dry and cracked; no longer were the lips red with health, but were colorless, and her face quite, quite pale. She saw the bleeding instrument, and shivered with distaste. “That man bled her? For shame!” She laid accusing eyes on the husband. “How could you allow it?”
That was not the thing to say to Mornay in his current state of mind. His look darkened. “How could I not, when a man of medicine assures me it is the thing to do? I would gladly let him cover her with leeches if I thought it might save her life.”
Mrs. Pellham’s brows drew together, but she said, “I daresay, you’re right; I beg your pardon, Phillip.”
The ice arrived, slivers and chunks in a bucket from the icehouse.
Mr. Mornay told his butler and Fotch: “Do not allow the doctor or his assistant upstairs until I tell you.”
“Yes, sir!”
Mrs. Pellham and Mr. Mornay set to wrapping pieces of ice in cloths and laying them upon poor Ariana’s hot body. Then they sat on either side of her on the bed and stayed at a vigil there, changing the ice, wringing out cloths, and looking for change in the patient.
It would be a long and very chilly day.