Chapter Four
Mr. O’Brien, having accepted that his fate was to appear before his old nemesis, the Paragon, did what he could to ready himself. He knew the interview must be a hopeless affair, but he was properly resigned to it. The Colonel’s honour was at stake; his own honour demanded his acquiescence, and so he set himself to making his appearance in the best manner possible.
He went first to his mother and suffered the humiliation of enlisting her support in the form of funds. She was reluctant to help him in the scheme, feeling there was a preponderance of certain doom attached to the venture. But sons have their way of finagling help from their mothers, and soon Mr. O’Brien was in possession of enough money to call upon his tailor.
He had his overcoat re-lined and cleaned; he did the same for his boots and shoes, getting new heels and paying extra for the very best polish. He even bought a new waistcoat, and would have splurged on a shirt, but needed enough money for the post-chaise to get to Middlesex. He made certain to keep enough for the return journey, as that, he knew, would not be far behind his arrival. During a routine hair trim, the barber somehow convinced him to sport the very latest fashion of a slight ‘whip’ above his forehead. His hair was the perfect texture, he said; his face had just the right shape to pull it off without a hint of dandyism. So when the curate left the shop, he had a new wave in his hair, and could hardly suppress a slight feeling of glee when two young ladies sent admiring glances in his direction as he returned to the family carriage.
With this little boost to his confidence, and an excellent shave, he packed his clothing, (particularly his whitest cravats—this was, after all, Mornay he was to see) kissed his mother goodbye, and set off on his doomed journey.
He felt almost optimistic at the outset. But during the two and a half hours of the drive, he had time to consider his past sins—the reasons Mornay would never present the living to him. It had been years now since his humbling defeat at that man’s hands; years since he had fallen in love with a woman, only to have her choose Mornay instead of him. He bore no ill-will toward her; indeed, his feeling for Miss Ariana Forsythe—er, Mrs. Mornay, was nought but benevolent. He wished her every happiness. But he and Mr. Mornay had never seen eye to eye, even apart from Mr. O’Brien’s bungled dealings with his wife. Providence had seen fit to have the man resurface in his affairs, but he wondered why. He’d thought the Mornays were behind him forever.
The worst he’d done was to succumb to a few weak impulses, stealing a kiss from Ariana when he ought not to have. Nothing more dishonourable than that. ’Twas a sin he’d repented of, received forgiveness for, and put decidedly in his past. But the name, “Mornay” brought it all rushing back across his mind like a soldier reliving some great battle. Only this was a battle of the heart—and one he’d lost.
He understood Ariana Mornay enough to know that he had nothing to fear at her hands. She would receive him kindly, whether she wished for him to have the living or not; but her husband? Why had he not written to the Colonel, telling of his abhorrence for Mr. O’Brien? Or, why had he not written directly, telling him privately what he really thought, and that he oughtn’t to waste his time calling upon them at Aspindon? It would have saved him this pointless trip.
When the chaise stopped at an inn to pick up more passengers, O’Brien hired a fast-riding messenger and sent an urgent letter to Mr. Mornay. If he was to be turned away at the door, let the man say so now, before he arrived. “Go home, O’Brien,’ it would say. “You are not welcome here.” And go home he would, with relief. But that message had not come, and now the coach was well-nigh the vicinity of Aspindon House. Mr. O’Brien sighed. He did not relish the next hours.
Unfortunately, without their knowing it, and just when Beatrice had tried out the name of “Mr. Frederick Frogglethorpe,” aloud upon her tongue, the butler was just at the door with a guest, and both men heard her pronouncement. Nigel had exited the room just as swiftly as he had run in (at Mrs. Perler’s calling for him) and left the door open. Frederick, just raising his hand to knock, heard the words coming from the room. He stiffened, and grimaced. Why was he the brunt of a joke? He took a breath, and again went to knock—when Beatrice’s voice again rang out: “I think he will bow timidly, with overarching propriety and offer you a great deal of flummery.” They all chuckled, and Miss Bluford, nodding fervently, agreed, “Yes, indeed, indeed! Flummery—of the richest sort! The smoothest going down! Quite the vicar!”
Now Mr. Frederick’s eyes opened wide in comprehension, which turned to apprehension. They were not making fun of him; they were making fun of the man with him! Mr. Mornay had told him to expect the arrival of a curate. It did not take a man of brilliance to understand that the occupants of the room were jesting about a clergyman. He felt deuced uncomfortable, but there was nothing else for it, so he knocked and opened the door all the way, so both men could enter.
“Begging your pardon!” he said, in a tone that was almost a scold, for he hoped to silence the room (and did); “Mr. O’Brien!”
From his position near the mantel, for Mr. Mornay was casually leaning against it, he cracked the smallest smile at Freddy. The man had bottom.
Meanwhile, the effect of the butler’s tone was that the room immediately fell into an immense silence. It was that, or the name of O’Brien, or the realization that their “Mr. Frogglethorpe” had arrived, and he was nothing to snivel at.
Mr. Mornay’s eyes flew to his wife. He was curious, no sense denying it, as to how she would behave with her old admirer. Ariana recovered her astonishment first, and said, with quiet pleasure, “Mr. O’Brien. Upon my word! Do come in, sir!” To the servant she added, “Thank you, Freddie; we’ll have tea now.” The butler, with a mild look of reproval that he could not erase, bowed lightly and left the room.
Beatrice’s eyes were round with surprise—nay—amazement. She remembered Mr. Peter O’Brien as a tall, kind young man who had indulged her when, at the age of twelve, she had promised to marry him, of all things! She was blushing lightly for having just mouthed the words “Mr. Frederick Frogglethorpe,” realizing that the man might well have heard her; her blush deepened at this memory. She despised blushing—and set to reasoning herself out of it.
Her rash promise had been given when Ariana’s betrothal to Mr. Mornay was established, five years earlier. Mr. O’Brien had maintained his hopes for her sister’s affection right up to the wedding. But on that day when Ariana and Mr. Mornay had fallen into each other’s arms—right there in Aunt Bentley’s parlour (for Mrs. Bentley hadn’t married Mr. Pellham, yet, though she was Aunt Pellham, now)—Beatrice had seen the forlorn expression on the young man, and felt terribly sorry for him.
He had been speaking with her father, and she had every reason, to her twelve–year-old mind, to think him a worthy gentleman. So she had stepped forward and said, “I’ll marry you,” to the young man. The men had laughed, so she added, “But I shall, Papa. As soon as you give your leave!”
So without his offering for her, and contrary to all propriety, Beatrice had proposed herself to be this man’s wife! What if he remembered? What would he think of her now?
In the past, he had gallantly treated her fancy for him with the air of a fond older brother. He had never teased or berated her, not even when she stayed with his family on Blandford Street in London, and assured them all earnestly—and repeatedly—that she would marry Peter as soon as her papa gave leave. Even more colour infused her cheeks, and she suddenly felt as though she was at the edge of her seat. Of all the people in the world whom she might have run into at her sister’s house, this one man seemed the most unlikely—and yet here he was!
His gaze fell upon her. He had very blue and intelligent eyes; eyes that were unlikely to have forgotten her youthful faux pas. Beatrice tried to smile but quickly looked away.
She oughtn’t to be flummoxed at this meeting, she told herself. She’d been a mere child when she rashly promised to marry him. But this thought, though accurate, did nothing to erase her mortification. She could barely take in his dignified appearance, the handsome demeanour and good manners he was displaying—for fear he would take one look more at her and remember it all! She hoped it was the sort of thing a gentleman would not dream of mentioning.
Her thoughts were flitting rapidly through her head while Mr. O’Brien spoke to Ariana and her husband. He had always been handsome, in her memory, but seeing him now was like a jolt. Perhaps it was an air of maturity he had gained, more than an alteration in his features; but whatever the cause, he looked exceedingly fine. If not for the dread which had come upon her, she would be proud of him, and pleased to make this reacquaintance.
He wore a well-fitted twin-tailed black jacket which had the fashionable little bulge in the upper sleeves, and tailored cuffs at the wrists. His cravat was more voluminous than those her brother-in-law favored, but not unbecoming; a fine embroidered yellow waistcoat peeked out of his jacket, and breeches with stockings and black shoes brought the eye to the floor. A cane, and a hat in one hand—for he hadn’t given it to the butler—finished the ensemble. His hair was neatly fashioned into a whip, and it gave him a sort of dash that she did not remember in him. And—wait—he had used to have blonde hair. It had grown into a deep brown, with just a few streaks of lighter strands here and there. The colour, she had to admit, suited him.
In short, he was as neat and fine a gentleman as Beatrice had seen, though she could not be sure if his polished look was due to superior tailoring, or if he had somehow grown into wearing his clothing with more aplomb. The dark colours suited a clergyman, and the hint of yellow from the waistcoat lightened his appearance so that there was no sense of severity in it. Beatrice reminded herself that if she could meet Mr. Mornay’s dark eyes without a single flutter to her heart, surely the presence of a mere curate would do no worse.
Ariana, meanwhile, was making introductions. When it came to Beatrice’s turn, she said, “Beatrice, you recall Mr. O’Brien; my sister, Miss Forsythe, sir.” Mr. O’Brien had been looking with polite curiosity at Beatrice, but at Ariana’s words he seemed to open his eyes wider. “My dear Miss Forsythe!” he said, warmly. “I hardly knew it was you.”
“She has altered a great deal in her appearance since last you met, has she not?” Ariana asked, smiling proudly. Mr. O’Brien raised his eyes while completing a bow, and exclaimed, in his soft-toned voice, “Altered, indeed! Grown up, I should say. What a pleasant surprise to see you!”
Beatrice replied, while impulsively thrusting out one hand, “Thank you, sir.” His clear blue eyes held a flash of something; was it amusement? She blushed afresh. He took her hand, held it lightly, and even bowed over it again, but did not raise it to his lips. (To her relief! What on earth had made her offer her hand to him?)
In all this time, Mr. Mornay had not stepped forward from his place by the mantel.
“You see who has arrived, sir,” Ariana said to him now, with a wide-eyed look that delighted him, for he always found her adorable when consternation assailed her. She wanted him to acknowledge their guest, so he gave a polite nod and said, “Good day, Mr. O’Brien.”
The curate gave him a short bow. “Thank you for receiving me,” he said guardedly, along with a look of perplexity. Mornay could well understand it.
Ariana showed their guest to a seat. Mr. O’Brien, she noticed, retained the soft-spoken earnestness she had always liked in him, but without the air of timidity that used to accompany it. When he was seated, she said, “Sir, I am pleased to see you looking so well.”
“I could say quite the same thing for you, ma’am.” With a look to her husband he added, “Mr. Mornay evidently takes excellent care of you.”
While the maids brought in the tea service and began to distribute cups, Ariana looked at her husband again with eyes filled with surprise. Turning back to her guest she said, “Well! I must say, you are the last person we expected to see today! We are just now waiting for other company. Do tell us what brings you to the neighbourhood.”
Mrs. Royleforst cleared her throat. What seemed obvious to her—that Mr. O’Brien had come about the living—was evidently not so to her niece-in-law.
Ariana was so surprised at Mr. O’Brien’s unexpected appearance that she did not think her husband could have known about it and not told her.
Mr. O’Brien froze in his chair. He turned to Mornay. “What brings me? Did you not get a recommendation from Colonel Sotheby?”
“Colonel Sotheby!” Ariana looked in amazement at him, and her look of confusion changed to one of understanding. “You are the man he recommended! My word ” She turned to her husband and gave him a different look, as much as to say, Indeed! And you did not tell me!
“I thought you would enjoy the surprise,” he said. He did not want to mention that he had only learned of the man’s coming himself, and that he’d doubted the cleric would show.
“I am surprised, indeed.” This explanation satisfied her so that she was not vexed. She turned to their guest with a smile. “I beg your pardon! My husband did not say who we were to expect, only that a man was coming. So you have taken Holy Orders, then?”
“Yes. Three years back, actually.”
He was by turns addressed with a polite question from nearly everyone in the room, saving Beatrice and Miss Bluford. Beatrice was aware he was speaking, but hardly knew what of, for she was still reeling with the thought of her foolishness regarding this man, this one man out of all the curates in England! She had practically forgotten all about the incident; she certainly did not consider it binding in any way. But the fear nevertheless assaulted her mind forcibly: What if he remembers? What if he makes mention of it? She would die a thousand deaths in one moment. And then she would wish to murder him!
She tried to concentrate on the conversation, but found herself studying the churchman. He was fair-skinned as ever, with dark sideburns that were trim and neat. Somehow his features were redolent, it seemed to Beatrice, of having suffered in life. This must be what accounted for the change in him. He had more presence than in the past. He did not wear a pained expression, but one such as a person who was accustomed to receiving bad news. It could perhaps be called a world-wizened look, as that of a man who knew of serious truths.
If he chanced to look toward her side of the room, Beatrice averted her gaze speedily. At one point she found Mr. Mornay eyeing her intently, which might have been disconcerting, except that she was too consumed by the fear of her childish promise being spoken of to properly take note of her brother-in-law. She rehearsed how Mr. O’Brien’s eyes had met hers with the fondness as for a child—which would be exactly what he used to feel for her, for she was a child. That realization ought to have soothed her fears; but did not.
Her discomfort increased the longer he sat and conversed. There was only one thing for it, to her mind. If Mr. O’Brien made the slightest reference to her childish fancy, she would feign ignorance, pretending to have forgot. It was not a wholly honest strategy, she knew, but her desperation to avoid embarrassment was severe enough to recommend her to the thought.
Ariana asked, “Why do you not tell us about these past years? Where have you been situated? How has life treated you? Would this be your first vicarage? I can still hardly comprehend that you may be our very own parson! I am—”
Mr. Mornay cleared his throat. When she looked to him, he said, “Mr. O’Brien is come only to explore the opportunity of this living. We, both of us, must find it fitting, before anything is settled.”
Ariana remembered his earlier words; that the man was “wasting his time.” But if her husband had no intention of approving him, why had he allowed him to come? It troubled her. To her surprise, it also disappointed her, for it had seemed a providential and comfortable arrangement, having Mr. O’Brien fill the vacancy. Only of course her husband would not want it to be so. He had never felt the slightest regard for Mr. O’Brien, and, to the contrary had used to call him, “that endless pest.” She would talk with him about the matter when they were alone; but for now, she turned a bright smile to the cleric and said, in her best hostess voice, “So—tell us what you have done since 1813.”
Mr. O’Brien understood Mr. Mornay’s meaning and wasn’t the least surprised by it. His only puzzlement was why the man had allowed him to come? Why had he not prevented the whole affair by means of letters? ’Twas irksome that he had been put to the trouble and expense of this call, when it was going to end just as he feared. He would be back at St. Pancras’s parish, as though the whole interview, the travel, the expenses, had never occurred. But he had no time to dwell further upon the subject. Mrs. Mornay had addressed him with a question.
He answered as best he could, briefly detailing his short stint in the army; he explained how he had received a sum anonymously, of sufficient size to purchase a commission—with a sudden look of curiosity to Mr. Mornay—could it have been from him? Ridiculous thought! It was a ridiculous thought, wasn’t it?
“Anonymously?” asked Mrs. Royleforst, with astonishment.
“Yes.” A short silence commenced, and so he continued his tale. How, during his first field assignment, he had injured his left arm during an action at Vera (in Spain, he explained) while defending the Bridge over the Bidassoa from the French. It was a key structure and France did lose it in the end; but 850 British soldiers were wounded or killed, and Mr. O’Brien was one of them. (He assured the room that over 1500 French casualties had been suffered, which was sufficient to underscore the English victory, and brought relief upon the faces of his audience.)
Since the bullet had narrowly missed a vital artery–which would have cost him his arm, the medical officer said, if not his life—Mr. O’Brien had been forced to consider his time on earth in a new way. His narrow escape from death made him reconsider his motives. He had joined the army to avoid dwelling on painful circumstances (spoken carefully and without a glance in Ariana’s direction) and yet it had brought only more of it into his life. Besides his own injury, he had witnessed death and brutality on the battlefield as he hoped never to lay eyes upon in this world again.
“By contrast,” he finished, “even St. Pancras’ parish seems tame in comparison.”
They all nodded.
“That is your parish?” asked Ariana. “You are curate there?” A flash of concern went through her. What a difficult place for a sensitive soul.
“Yes, ma’am. My injury was the thing which brought my attention back to God and the Church. It is my calling, and I had shirked it.” He related how he subsequently sold his commission, and in six month’s time had taken Holy Orders. A year after that he accepted the curacy at St. Pancras and had been there ever since. At Christmas past, his old friend Colonel Sotheby had sought him out, seen his condition, and vowed to do something for him.
“What was your condition, Mr. O’Brien, if you do not mind telling us?” Mrs. Forsythe asked, gently; and soon the room was rapt, listening to tales of Mr. O’Brien having to go to his family’s home on Blandford Street to eat a proper meal, as he had given his own away; of finding the most sorrowful pieces of humanity upon the parsonage doorstep, only to have little more to offer them but weak ale and old cheese. It was an underprivileged area, and many a sad sight had he seen on the streets; many a sad plight (he said with a deep sigh) that he was unable to do anything for, other than pray. Even now, at the memory of how helpless he had been to help others, his hands balled into fists, though he had nowhere to lay blame unless he desired to take on the authority of the Church, and the reason why so many curates were underprovided for.
When they asked for particular stories regarding St. Pancras, he said, “I fear I have said too much already.” To the chorus of objections which ensued, he added, “Were I to give you further details it would reflect poorly upon me as a gentleman; for ladies are not suited for such that I could tell, I assure you.”
“Oh, do, I beseech you, Mr. O’Brien!” Beatrice had been listening with such a piqued interest that she had wholly forgot her earlier embarrassment. She tried not to reveal the least surprise at her own outburst, and noted that he eyed her appreciatively. Mrs. Forsythe added, “We are not the swooning type of females, sir, and we understand the evils of this world well enough.” With a glance at Beatrice, she added, “I daresay the right tale from you may even prevail upon my daughter Miss Forsythe not to pine after a Season in London, yet.”
“Oh, Mamma!” Beatrice said, blushing. It was perfectly understandable that a young lady should desire a coming out in London. But she added, “I am not pining!”
“My opinion, sir,” said the mother, “is that Miss Forsythe is too young for that pleasure; she is but seventeen.” To Beatrice she added, “We’ll speak more of it, later.”
I wish you had not spoken of it at all, Beatrice thought. No need to tell a stranger—well, he was virtually a stranger, for it had been so long—about her hopes or plans.
Ariana rescued her from further embarrassment by turning back to their guest. “Tell us more of your experiences, if you please.”
O’Brien sought the eye of Mr. Mornay, who nodded lightly. So he told of females who were mothers before they themselves had left girlhood; of men who were so lost upon that demon gin that they spent every last shilling upon it and slept in beds of garbage and filth. These same men had children and wives, but left them to fend for themselves. He told how children of three years of age and older were taught to pick pockets and nap handkerchiefs so their mothers could sell them to buy food. Abandoned women, mothers with no husbands, and children with no parents at all; infants left on the church door steps. It was appallingly sorrowful.
The company listened with great silence. Mr. O’Brien’s steady, low tones brought the hardships of the London poor to such poignant light that even Mr. Mornay forgot that he disliked the man, and Beatrice forgot to feel wary of him. The tea in her cup grew cold; and she never reached for a biscuit, though she enjoyed them. Only Mrs. Royleforst, though enraptured with interest at the images and scenes his tales conjure, kept slowly eating a plate of baked treats until it was emptied.
Beatrice admired Mr. O’Brien’s earnestness, whose soft voice was tender and yet full of pity, grief, or anger, at the things he had seen. His deep blue eyes were like a magnet to hers, and she could not be oblivious to his commendable heartfelt wish to be of help to such people as were in his parish. She began to feel the injustices of life for the poor in a new way. His points of outrage at society in allowing the existence of such hubs of sin and evil were so deeply experienced that his gentle voice was like the sharpest hammer, piercing to her soul.
Ariana was no less affected, and held one hand over her heart as she listened. Mr. Mornay came and sat beside her, and took her hand. She had always wanted to do much for the poor, but had given herself to her family and the village of Glendover.
“In short,” Mr. O’Brien said, “The people of St. Pancras are starving, and yet they do not seek a life elsewhere, but remain in their little rat’s nests—forgive my language, but I have seen these places—and continue to live by thievery and whoredom. I think I have aged a decade in these past few years, not only on account of my time in battle at war, but in these constant battles against evil at home. I am too young, or, I daresay, too witless (with a smile) to devise any answer for the great need of the poor of St. Pancras, and as a curate I am virtually useless except in my capacity to pray and give sermons.”
Could this account for his dark hair? Beatrice wondered. Did not people usually turn grey, or white, as a result of great difficulties? Perhaps; but Mr. O’Brien had turned brunette, strange as it seemed. And the change suited him. It was too bad he was not a man of independent means, for that was the type of man she must marry. She felt a pang of unrest with the thought—but brushed it aside. No unsuitable man would turn her head, not even a handsome curate with a heart of gold. She was determined to have her day in the upper-class society of the Season, and to see what would come of that. There had to be gentlemen aplenty there, and Mr. O’Brien was not the only man in the world with appealing blue eyes and a big heart.
I may be young, she thought. But I am no longer the child who would marry the first eligible young man she met just because he wanted a cure for being lovesick! Mr. O’Brien had been utterly deflated in spirit upon losing Ariana to Mr. Mornay and Beatrice had felt sorry for him. Now she was older and understood life far better.
And besides, he no longer seemed the least bit sick from love.