Chapter Twenty-Eight
Back at the vicarage, Mrs. Persimmon brought the Bartons and Lord Horatio into the drawing room, where only Mrs. Forsythe was nervously working on a piece of needlework.
No one seemed to know where Mr. O’Brien had got to, and when it was discovered that Beatrice was also gone, and the carriage, Mrs. Forsythe guessed aloud that they were inquiring about Ariana’s health. She was poking her needle into the canvas rather feelingly; Miss Barton felt too shy to mention their errand: that they were come to be married. She felt badly about Mrs. Mornay herself.
Mr. Barton stood looking out the window. He had come to witness the marriage for his sister, but he had nothing to say to Mrs. Forsythe. If Mrs. Mornay recovered, he would pursue the alliance with Beatrice as before; if she did not, he was prepared to wash his hands of the whole business. He’d admit his failure to the prince; give up the Manor House, and get back to his real life in London with its gaming tables and cock fights, and other gentlemen’s pleasures. He had hoped to find himself in the prince’s debt, to be celebrated at Carlton House or Brighton; but so be it. His life was not so bad as it had been. This country living was what he could not abide!
A sudden thought intruded upon his brain, however. If Mrs. Mornay did recover, and he wished to pursue Beatrice, would the vicar be an obstacle? She and he were gone from the house. That put them together somewhere. Dash it, he did not like it!
He turned to Mrs. Forsythe. “I understand that your family has long known our Mr. O’Brien, is that correct, ma’am?”
“Some of our family has long known him, sir. Particularly Mrs. Mornay.”
“Does he often take one of your daughters abroad with no chaperone?” She eyed him with surprise. A sense of unease sniffed at her heels, and she replied, cautiously, “He is a trusted acquaintance, sir, if that is your question.”
“Barton, mind your manners!” put in his sister.
He turned to her. “Does it not strike you as odd? They’re being out together? Did they not once get lost upon the grounds at Aspindon?”
“I am certain they will not get lost, sir,” said Mrs. Forsythe, wondering at this sudden censure from the gentleman. She suddenly realized that Mr. Barton was speaking like a disappointed young man. Like a man who thought himself, perhaps, thwarted in love? She was in favor of a possible romance between Beatrice and the vicar, but she needed to tread carefully. It must not seem scandalous. So she added, “My daughter knows that I will rest easier when I have heard of Mrs. Mornay’s condition this morning. You can be assured that this is their object.”
“Of course,” he replied, politely; except that his tone lacked an ounce of sincerity. “I beg your pardon.”
“All we can do is to wait,” said Mrs. Pellham. Phillip sat upon the bed beside his wife, holding her hand. He and Mrs. Pellham had steadily been applying cold cloths to Ariana’s head and neck—even her body. An onion poultice was that moment upon her chest, and ice in cloth upon her brow. Using an additional wet cloth, Phillip smoothed it over her face and neck and arms. Through it all, Ariana was quiet and limp.
Mr. Mornay released her hand, and went and stood before the casement. It was a typical winter day with mixed sun, but the silent landscape was now an unfeeling reminder of happier days. The bedchambers looked over the rear of the estate, and he could see the maze, and he thought suddenly of the day a young blonde-headed woman had run into him at top speed; she was exceedingly pretty, but that he ignored; he always ignored women. Instead he proceeded to give her a set-down. She had thoroughly surprised him by returning him one. She had spirit.
’Twas that spirit which first had attracted him to her. Looking over at her now—so pale and silent—was utterly disheartening. If only the deuced fever would leave her! A light knock at the door revealed Mr. Speckman, who was greeted with a blast of cold air. He was not supposed to have been allowed back to the room—Freddie had failed to enforce the order.
The windows were now only open an inch or so, but the fire was out, and the room, cold. Mr. Speckman’s patient was exposed to this. His eyes opened in shock. “What the devil are you doing? Do you wish to kill her?” He rushed over toward the window, but Mr. Mornay sprang to his feet and put himself in his path.
The physician looked into the formidable face but cried, “You’ll kill her, sir! I tell you, she’ll not survive!”
“If you cannot give your approval, Mr. Speckman, I suggest you take yourself off.” With a grave look of doubt, the man eyed Mornay for a moment, recognizing the air of assurance. His advice would no longer be followed. He went and collected his bag. His assistant, behind him, gathered more things, and the two of them left, giving only the slightest bows. At the doorway, the man stopped and turned around. “Her death will not be upon my shoulders.”
“True!” cried Mrs. Pellham. “And neither will her recovery be to your credit.” He looked injured at that, but turned and was gone. In another moment, Beatrice came into the room wearing a look of horror. She had seen the doctor and his assistant in the corridor and thought by their grave countenances, that the worst had occurred. They were leaving due to failure! Her sister was lost! She stopped to glance at the scene, Ariana upon the bed so very still; and then, with a great sob, threw herself at her sister’s limp body.
“You’ll hurt her,” cried Mrs. Pellham sharply, trying to pull her off.
“What?” Beatrice blinked at her. “She isn’t—? I saw the doctor leaving…”
“Oh, no, my dear! Your sister lives!”
“Oh! Thank God!” She sat up, brushed a bit of ice from her gown, and turned and studied the form upon the bed. She met the gaze of Mr. Mornay, who nodded a greeting. She had nothing helpful to say to him, and so she turned her attention back to Ariana. She reached out her hand to smooth away a stray bit of hair, and felt Ariana’s pale face. Curious, she touched the back of her neck, then her arms, and hands. Mr. Mornay saw her doing this, and he started over, an intense look upon his countenance.
“She isn’t hot!” cried Beatrice.
Mrs. Pellham and Mr. Mornay began to feel her skin in various places and in a rapture of joy, she and Mr. Mornay beamed at each other. Mrs. Pellham impulsively threw herself against him, right into his arms. The embrace seemed to be heartfelt on both sides. They each loved Ariana, and if Mrs. Pellham had never expected to find herself embracing the Paragon, she did not show it now. Beatrice was also overcome, and she put her arms about the two of them as best she could.
Mr. Pellham, meanwhile, had been warned by his wife to stay clear of the sick room, but he was immensely fond of Ariana. Unable to help himself, he timidly opened the door, expecting to find a sad scene before him. When he saw the three in a circle of closeness, he thought the worst had occurred. He crept silently into the room, and, not wanting to disturb the mourners, took a glance at the lovely lady upon the bed. His eyes filled with tears. And then, suddenly, Ariana was looking up at him.
He blinked, thinking he was imagining it. But then she blinked.
“Upon my soul!’ he cried, causing the others, who did not know of his presence, to jump apart in surprise. “Randolph! You frightened me,” cried his wife.
“She’s awake!” he said, in delighted response.
Mr. Mornay had just discovered this, and he fell to her side on his knees and took her into his arms. He cradled her head against him, and kissed the side of her face over and over, and whispered, “Thank God!”
The others looked at each other, and by silent motions agreed to leave the pair alone. In a few seconds they had gone, while Mr. Mornay held his wife, who was still too weak to talk or return his sentiments. He suddenly clamped his eyes shut, but not in time to prevent a tear that slid down his face. He had almost lost her, but she was back! Thank God!
Mr. O’Brien, unfortunately, had the unhappy task of delivering only bad news. The fever hadn’t broken yet, to his knowledge, and Ariana’s danger had not passed. To say the atmosphere in the house was dampened would be an understatement.
Lord Horatio got the vicar alone and said, “Look here; would it be improper, under the circumstances, to ask you to perform the ceremony for us?”
Mr. O’Brien said, “I think it is acceptable; one sad event does not mean there cannot be a happy one.” He pulled out his watch fob. “Is your bride ready?”
“Yes.” Lord Horatio smiled. “I am much obliged.” He shoved some bank notes into Mr. O’Brien’s hand. “Please. Let me take care of this, now.”
“Obliged, sir.” Mr. O’Brien, so used to officiating at ceremonies for the poorest of London, was not used to accepting paper notes, as those beneath his care could usually part with only a shilling. There was no set amount for his services, and he had always been grateful for whatever came his way. Fortunately for him, Lord Horatio had managed to eke some money out of the marquess as well as the family coach. And he was a generous man.
The two were married in the parlour. Mrs. Forsythe wished that Beatrice could have seen their vicar in his official surplice and tippet, Bible in hand, adroitly delivering the ceremony. She was proud of him herself, almost as though he was a son, which was strange because she had never been closely acquainted with Mr. O’Brien before.
When the couple was pronounced man and wife, she managed to smile and give the new couple her sincerest best wishes—along with a few shillings for a new bonnet, she said—and tried to keep up her spirits while Mrs. Persimmon provided some refreshments afterward. It plagued her that she had not known in advance of the wedding, for she would have had a finer table, she said. But Miss Barton did not care. She was all smiles, and never looked lovelier.
The moment the happy couple left, as well as Mr. Barton, the children came down for their daily time to be with the adults. Mrs. Forsythe wore only smiles for their sake. She wouldn’t ever let Nigel know his mamma was in danger. And she made sure to stay in the parlour for the whole of their visit. She could not let Mrs. Royleforst have them all to herself.
“Dash it all, I’ve just remembered something!” said Lord Horatio.
“Well?” asked Tristan. They were just turning in to the drive of the Manor.
“I’m to get Mornay to London for Prinny.”
“Are you? That’s deuced interesting because I am supposed to do that very thing!”
“Tristan has had no opportunity,” explained Anne. “Mrs. Mornay’s illness makes it impossible.”
“I suppose that’s why I was sent,” said his lordship carefully, not imparting the Regent’s assessment of Barton as an incompetent ninny.
“I told the prince of the threat to Mrs. Mornay; and that the Paragon would no doubt accept the viscountcy.”
“Did Phillip indeed say that?”
Tristan hesitated; he'd forgot that his lordship was tight with the Paragon, on a first-name basis. “No, dash it. But would you turn down a title? He’s an Englishman, is he not?”
Horatio whistled. “One never knows with our dignified friend.”
“The place is a sickbed, in any case,” snapped Mr. Barton. “We’d take our life in our hands if we try and see him, now.”
“Leave the matter for a few days,” said Anne. “By then, the outcome with poor Mrs. Mornay will be determined, and we will know whether to try the man or not.”
“Well, and since you are newly wed, I think I’ll just spend those days in London. I leave you the house—until the lease runs out.”
“And abandon Miss Forsythe to the vicar?” asked Anne, half joking.
“She must be at Aspindon now; she’ll stay until her sister recovers or dies. I should not likely see her, in any case.”
“See here,” said Lord Horatio. “Mrs. Mornay is a dear friend; do not speak so unfeelingly of her, I pray you.”
“I beg your pardon,” he said, surprised to discover this. “I only mean that my interest in Miss Forsythe must cease if Mrs. Mornay does not rally through this.”
“Is that so?” asked his lordship.
“She brings me no advantage without her sister, you addlepate!”
“Tristan!” cried Anne. “How can you speak to his lordship like that?”
Barton shrugged. “I cannot afford to marry beneath me.”
“You dare to say that to me?” exclaimed Lord Horatio. “When I have just married your sister with a dowry so small as to be unacceptable to my parents!”
Mr. Barton eyed him with an unreadable expression. “You are a better man, than I,” he said. “But a poorer one.”
“On the contrary, “said his lordship with a proud look, as he put one arm around his new wife, “I have riches ye know not of.”