Chapter Three
Mr. Mornay held the advowson and could present the living at Glendover to whomsoever he chose, when and if it fell vacant. And Glendover was vacant. The last vicar had died unexpectedly two months since, and the Paragon had not yet presented the benefice to a new man. He was considering the names of a few; he had held four interviews, and was happy with none of the applicants. He hoped at first that the Colonel had a good man to fill the situation, but when he saw the name, Peter O’Brien, his face froze for a moment in disbelief. O’Brien! That endless pest! He’d dangled after Ariana far too long, far longer than was seemly.
The man was not intentionally vexatious, Mornay knew that; but he’d managed to make himself a supremely heavy cart for the horse, so to speak. He was, in other words, burdensome. His actions in the past had resulted in Ariana’s abduction, and he had been caught stealing a kiss from her—which Mr. Mornay had almost been in time to prevent, but had instead found his bride-to-be just recovering herself from. He felt an old stirring of irritation, and when his eye fell upon the date on the letter—5 January—he felt a strong new one. Why in blazes hadn’t the letter reached him sooner?
It was 24 February—too late for him to write and prevent the interview. O’Brien would be arriving any time—if he had the pluck. (With any luck, he would not.) And imagine if Phillip had not got the news beforehand! He might have received him most ungraciously.
In light of the hearty words of commendation from Colonel Sotheby (so the young man had done a stint in the army; that spoke well of him) he decided to make an effort at giving Peter O’Brien a fair chance at the living. Wait, no; that was asking too much. He could not grant the man a place in their parish. He’d be in their lives forever. No one could be expected to be that forgiving!
He would make an attempt at peace, however. Let O’Brien prove his mettle, if he could.
He wondered how Ariana would react when she heard. Just in case the man did not show up, he decided to say nothing to her at present. No sense putting her in mind of the uncomfortable events of the past. It was unfortunate enough that he had to think on them.
The next day, when Ariana and Phillip joined their guests in the drawing room, Ariana said brightly to her relations, “What do you think?” She took in the sight of her mother and sister on one sofa, both with canvases and needles in hand; her Aunt Royleforst, on an opposite settee, beside Miss Bluford, who was helping the lady make out the illustrations in a fashion magazine; and made her announcement: “Mr. Mornay has just this minute got a note by special messenger—there is a curate en route this very moment to apply for the living! I do hope he is suitable. We have been without a vicar these past two months, and have gone to Warwickdon for our services. It is not too inconvenient to go there, only a short drive; but Mr. Hargrove (the rector at Warwickdon) is very soon to abandon us for a new living he has got!”
Ariana did not know that the hastily written note which her husband had just received was from Mr. Peter O’Brien. He had wished to inform Mr. Mornay that he was, at that very moment, no more than four or so miles away, and desired to know if he was welcome at Aspindon House. Permission was granted—Mr. Mornay knew the man had travelled from London, and could guess at the trouble it had cost him. If only that deuced letter from the Colonel had arrived when it should have—the interview would have been avoided.
He told his wife only that he was expecting a new candidate for the living, and now entered the room where the ladies were. He was half curious to see the curate—if only to reassure himself of the man’s utter unworthiness.
Meanwhile, the women in the room looked struck with curiosity by Ariana’s announcement. “The Warwickdon vicar is to leave also? And then you will have no man at all; that won’t do, will it?” said Mrs. Royleforst.
“I suppose we’d have a circuit rider. But we’d much prefer a man who is resident,” Ariana replied.
Mrs. Forsythe offered, “There are always an abundance of curates looking for employment. If this man does not answer the purpose, another will, I am certain. You have only to ask around and you’ll soon have a list of candidates longer than your parish birth registry, I vow!”
“Shall we try to guess at the sort of man our cleric is?” asked Ariana. She had taken up her own bit of needlework—her perpetual project was to knit blankets for the poor, dropping them off in the village whenever she had one finished.
“Shall we all get to see him?” Beatrice added, hopefully.
“I would very much like to, if I may,” put in Mrs. Royleforst.
“You may all meet him,” answered their host. “It will serve to demonstrate his manners in company,” he added, lightly. He almost smiled at the thought. Perhaps there would be some diversion in this after all.
The thought of a guest only made Beatrice proud to be among the family in the finely appointed room, with its dazzling furniture and décor. And her new afternoon dress of green and pink kerseymere, among the finest of winter gowns she had ever had the felicity of enjoying, was perfectly suited for the occasion of receiving company. Never before had Beatrice felt so indulgent, so condescending, so perfectly at ease among such wealth. But she was family; the house belonged to her sister’s husband. She was not timidly come to leave flowers for the lady of the manor, as she sometimes did at home; now she was one of the ladies of the manor. At least she was sure it must appear so to the coming visitor.
By this time next year, she thought, I shall likely be married to a fine gentleman, and my house, if not quite as elegant as Aspindon, will be richly appointed and pleasing to anyone.
“Well, Beatrice? Will you guess at the sort of man who is on his way?” her mamma asked.
Beatrice smiled, for she loved a good diversion, though somehow she had convinced herself that a calmness of manner was her trademark. She must not be thought of as a flighty young girl who grew excited at the least cause, or gave way to much mirth. Her nature, she wished it to be known, was not grave, but of a decidedly serious bent. She did, after all, read poetry and novels, and a few (a very few) other books. But when she saw that everyone was looking at her, she asked, brightly, “Shall I begin, then?”
“Yes, do,” said Ariana, noting for the thousandth time how much the girl had grown. She was little Beatrice no longer! Ariana watched affectionately while her sister spoke, taking note of the pleasing but strong features that hinted at a boldness of character, vivid imagination and mischievous spirit that showed in the sparkle of her green-hazel eyes. Since childhood Beatrice had shown a propensity to enjoy social occasions, and Ariana marveled that she had not changed in that respect. As the girl sat smiling, thinking on how to characterize the mysterious visitor to come, Ariana had to allow that when she smiled, Beatrice could be called beautiful. She was at the dawn of womanhood, her elder sister thought.
Beatrice said, “I think…it will be a man who has long been a curate, and is hankering to become a vicar.”
Mrs. Royleforst opined, large-eyed, “Well of course, they all do. Perpetual curates! No meaner prison in all Britain for a gentleman!”
“My dear ma’am,” Ariana hastened to reply. “I should say not. That is, there are many curates who are happily situated—.”
“And twice as many who are well-nigh starving,” the older lady added, smoothly. “Curates are nothing but gentlemen in a respectable debtor’s prison called the Church of England. Come, come, Ariana, even you cannot defend our religion in this case; it cannot be. Pluralism, you well know, is a direct result of too many curacies offering such mean stipends as no proper gentleman can live on! I quite sympathize with poor curates, you see.”
Ariana replied softly, “I can see; and I commend it in you. Indeed, I too, feel most strongly for the plight of poor churchmen, you must believe me.”
Beatrice, meanwhile, growing bored, scrunched up her face and said, “You must let me finish my caricature: I think—he is poor, exceedingly thin, and exceedingly dull in his conversation.”
The others chuckled.
She continued, “He will insist upon calling just when you are prepared to dine, will accept your gracious invitations to join you, and will afterwards drink port or claret while he bores Mr. Mornay to distraction, (she peeked at the dark eyes across the room and was pleased to find them upon her with a look of small amusement) and refuse to play cards, or dance, or be amiable.” She smiled smugly.
Ariana laughed. “You have painted an ogre! Why is your opinion of a stranger so decidedly gloomy? What is to answer for it, particularly when you have the agreeable Mr. Timmons as your model for a vicar? Do you despise the profession?”
“No!” Beatrice said, looking around innocently. “Only, now I think on it, a man must do very well in the church if he is to live as a gentleman, as Mrs. Royleforst says. He cannot make his fortune so well as a soldier or military man, having no recourse to the opportunities that war and travel provide.”
“Opportunities,” said Mr. Mornay. “Such as dying at the barrel of a rifle?”
Beatrice paused and pouted at him. “That was not my meaning, sir!” But the humour was not entirely lost upon her and she ended upon a little smile. “I grant it is a safer profession; but many a man has been made by his military service, while many a parson must scrounge and take on more parishes than he can handle merely to get by.”
“It is a grave injustice,” said Ariana, “but no reason to assume our cleric must be morose.”
Beatrice, nonplussed, said, “I thought you desired an ogre—someone we could laugh at.”
“What do we know of this man, truly?” asked Mrs. Forsythe. “Is he coming by recommendation? I am certain Mr. Timmons could advise you where to find a good man, sir, (to Mr. Mornay) if you are in need of help in that regard.”
Mr. Mornay spoke up. “He comes highly recommended. But he would not be coming at all, I assure you, except that the letter recommending him was delayed. I only received it yesterday. But he is wasting his time.”
Ariana was surprised. “Have you presented the living to someone else?”
Her husband met her eyes. “Without your knowing of it? No.”
“But you said he is wasting his time. And that he would not be coming if you had notice. What are we to make of that?” she asked, curious at his mysterious air.
“When the man arrives, you will understand me.”
“We do need a vicar,” she reminded him. “The people all feel the absence of poor Mr. Applegate.”
“The people are managing to get themselves to Warwickdon. ‘Tis but three miles. I should like to fill the position with a man of my chusing, if you must know.”
“But of course you will chuse the man. Only you can, my darling.” She cleared her throat, recalling that they were not alone. It was vexing to feel they must address each other formally in the presence of guests. Calling Phillip “my darling,” was her habit—not easy to alter on demand. “But I do think you must give this man—whatever you know of him—a fair trial of your scrutiny; for the Colonel’s sake, if not his own.”
“Do you have aught against the Colonel?” asked Mrs. Forsythe. “For what reason are you so decided in your opinion against the man he recommends?”
“It has nothing to do with the Colonel,” he answered.
“What is the curate’s name? “asked Beatrice.
“Yes, give us the name, Phillip!” added Mrs. Royleforst.
“Yes, the name!” echoed Miss Bluford, her minion, nodding her skinny head. She liked to be included in as much of genteel society as possible.
“We can conjecture better upon his character if we hear his name,” Ariana added, lending her weight to the pleas of the others.
“Ariana, do you not know it?” asked her mamma, a little surprised.
“Actually, no, Mr. Mornay has not told me.” She looked back at her husband. “You evidently know the man, or something of him. Is this not so?”
“I could never forget him, I assure you. But since he is expected any minute, I think I shall leave it to him to make himself known to you.”
Beatrice said, “You can never forget him? He must be singular, somehow!”
“If you indeed know this fellow, Phillip,” said Mrs. Royleforst, “ought you not to tell us what you know? Should we be on our guard? Something is afoot in this business with you, I can smell it.”
He merely gave that maddening half-smile, so Ariana said, “Never mind, let us devise our own little name for the ogre, then.” She paused and fell thinking, and then looked up with a rapturous expression for a second. In the next moment, however, her face fell again. “Oh, I can think of nothing. Beatrice, do you have something?”
To everyone’s surprise, not least of all Mrs. Royleforst, Miss Bluford spoke up. “I—I think I can, if I may be allowed—.”
“But of course, Miss Bluford!” cried her mistress, quite surprised.
The lady’s lips came together in concentration, and she lifted her chin. The other occupants in the room were almost craning their necks waiting, except for Phillip, who had crossed his arms and merely sat, watching her with not the least surprise or curiosity on his face.
“How—how do you like—” Miss Bluford swallowed. “How do you like this? Mr. Frogglethorpe.” The females in the room chuckled in surprise that sober Miss Bluford would produce such a name.
“Very amusing, Miss Bluford!” gasped Mrs. Royleforst approvingly.
With this encouragement, Miss Bluford gave a little wobbly smile and added, “Let us say, then, Mr. Frederick Frogglethorpe!” Her skinny shoulders shook as she quietly enjoyed her own mirth and gave little peeks at the others about her (except for Mr. Mornay, for he frightened her) She loved that she had amused everyone.
“I daresay Mr. Frederick wouldn’t approve of it,” replied the lady of the house, referring to their butler, whom her husband called ‘Freddy.’
Little Nigel burst into the room at that moment, leaving the door ajar.
“Mamma! Papa! Nigel is back!”
“Come to Auntie Royleforst,” said the large older woman, immediately; Mrs. Forsythe had been just about to offer her own arms to the child, and frowned, but she said nothing.
Beatrice smiled and repeated, “Frederick Frogglethorpe.’ I believe it has a very proper ring to it—almost.” She giggled and added, “I think he will bow timidly, with overarching propriety, and will offer you a great deal of flummery.” They all chuckled, and Miss Bluford, nodding fervently, agreed, “Yes, flummery—indeed, indeed! The richest sort! The smoothest going down! Quite the vicar!”
Mrs. Royleforst smiled at how Miss Bluford was coming out of her shell of silence, but she was too busy allowing Nigel the pleasure of crawling all over her large person to say anything of it.
The clock ticked, and they all continued to wait.