Chapter Nine
Mr. Mornay almost felt sorry for O’Brien. Now he will ask me outright for the living, he thought. He knew it had to be a deuced uncomfortable spot to be in. But the young man, after glancing about the desk, leveled his gaze on Mornay, who recognized a maturity in that one gesture that had not been in this man upon their last meeting. He gave a small smile, and then casually opened his snuffbox and took a tiny pinch. He offered the box to O’Brien, who declined politely.
The silence grated on Mr. O’Brien, however, so he asked, “You did get the letter, sir, from Colonel Sotheby?”
“Yes.”
Peter came to the edge of his seat. “Forgive me, sir, but I must know! Why did you allow me to come?” His eyes began roaming the tops of the bookshelves as he spoke. “I do not entertain the smallest notion that you have wholly forgiven me for what has occurred in the past, nor do I expect you shall. I was too much a fool, and I know it.” He settled his gaze back on his host, with nothing of hope in his eyes. “Why then, have you allowed my visit? I know what your eventual answer shall be; you would sooner present your living to the pope than to me! Is that not so?”
Mr. Mornay hadn’t expected to find O’Brien amusing. “I….do not think I could present it to the pope.” But he smiled gently.
“To anyone else in England, then, any other curate save this one!” and he hit his chest with his thumb in a disgusted manner. “I need to know, sir; am I here for your amusement? As a hoax? I cannot think what your motive might be, but it could hardly be for my benefit. I beg you, be plain with me on the matter, and I may yet leave here with some semblance of dignity intact, though I am the first to admit I have precious little of that when I am in your presence to begin with!”
“Slow down, O’Brien,” Mr. Mornay murmured. “I did get the Colonel’s letter, and, if you must know, I would indeed have discouraged you from coming all this way, had I received it in a timely manner.” He pulled a missive out of a top drawer of the desk, and unfolded it now. “It shows a date of five January, and states that you will arrive at my home on the twenty-fourth of February if I have no objection and will be in residence.”
He looked up at the younger man. “The thing is, you see, I did not receive this letter until the day you arrived.” He set it down again.
Peter looked thunderstruck. “What!” He shook his head. “I don’t understand! The Colonel assured me he’d written to you last month! I tried to reason him into a different recommendation, sir, of anywhere and anyone else—”
Again, the little smile. “I imagine you did,” he said.
“He insisted I come for the interview, so you see, I had no wherewithal except to appear. He would never recommend me to someone else if I hadn’t come, and I am quite sure I shall need another recommendation, as you know only too well.” His voice was growing quieter and more defeated by the second.
“So we, neither of us, wished to have this interview, and yet here we are.” Mr. Mornay took the letter and placed it back in the drawer.
Mr. O’Brien stood. “I can be packed and on my way as soon as I can hire a post chaise, sir.” He lifted his chin. “I shall return to London and we both may forget this happened.” He paused. “If I might be so bold, however, as to ask that you will indeed tell the Colonel I did my part in coming—”
Mr. Mornay watched, looking almost amused. “Don’t be in such a deuced hurry, O’Brien. My wife has asked you to be our guest, and as such, I cannot have you dashing off in a hired post chaise. As for the benefice,” and here his eyes grew sharp, “I am afraid I cannot present it to you.” There was an empty pause, a hollow moment for Mr. O’Brien, though it was just as he expected; but then Mr. Mornay went on, “but I have just received word that our neighbouring parish of Warwickdon is in desperate need of a vicar. A very ample situation, with a vicarage, and a hundred-and-fifty acre glebe that you may use as you see fit. It ought to suit you, and I know,” he added, picking up a pencil and playing with it in one hand, “that it will provide a gentlemen’s salary. There is no question but that it is far superior to your situation at St. Pancras.”
Mr. O’Brien’s brows went up while he heard this, and his mouth might just as well have dropped open in utter surprise, for that was how he felt.
He leaned forward eagerly. “But is there no one in line for the position, sir? Are you suggesting that were I to apply, a man unknown to the current clergyman, that I could have hopes of gaining the spot? When there are hundreds of curates like myself seeking such things?”
Mr. Mornay gave him a level stare. “With me as your patron, you would—so long as you can leave your current parish directly.”
Now Mr. O’Brien seemed struck. “You would do that…for me, sir?”
Mornay merely raised a brow at him, as if he was foolish to question him.
Mr. O’Brien sat back, amazed at his own good fortune. “Warwickdon! The very Warwickdon I passed through on my journey here? With the Gothic-style church that is visible from the road?”
A steady clear-eyed gaze met his. Only someone as familiar with the Paragon as his wife would know that he was suppressing a smile. “The very one, sir.”
Meanwhile, Mr. Barton was making his second call upon the Mornays, and had his sister in tow. Miss Barton was decidedly not feeling her best, but he had insisted she meet the women. Their hopes of making his sister’s acquaintance had been too plain for him to ignore, and he wanted to do everything in his power to cement good relations between himself and the Mornays. (Mr. Mornay was deuced unfriendly, and he needed to soften that gentleman’s attitude, however possible.)
Anne was received warmly, and soon they were all sitting comfortably about the drawing room, where Mrs. Royleforst had Nigel upon her lap, and Mrs. Forsythe held the baby. Anne could not help herself—she went and sat beside the lady to see the infant. She had never cared for an infant in her life. After she’d admired Miranda for some minutes, Mrs. Forsythe offered to let her hold the child. With undisguised pleasure, she said, “Oh, may I?” She looked to Ariana who was watching, and said, “Thank you!” when the infant’s mother smiled her assent.
Mr. Barton invited Beatrice to a game of piquet. They sat at a small card table on one side of the room, where he produced a set of playing cards from a pocket.
“You have cards upon you?” she asked, rather shocked.
He saw that it had been a mistake to have them, but he answered, “I was hoping to suggest a game with you, today. I merely came prepared.”
She smiled. “I see.” Glancing at the cards, she said, “May I?”
He handed her the deck, and she quickly started pulling out any card below sixes.
“You know,” she said, while she shuffled the remaining thirty-six cards, “I have read that this is a popular game at men’s clubs.”
“And so it is,” he answered, surprised that she would mention that.
“Do you enjoy gaming, sir?” She did not meet his eyes, and Mr. Barton had to smile to himself. Miss Forsythe was supremely easy to read; she wished to know if he gamed habitually. Easy to answer to her satisfaction. “Not at all, Miss Forsythe! It is a hazardous occupation, as you must know.”
“Indeed, I do,” she said, with a relieved smile. Mr. Barton relaxed in his chair, while she dealt out the hand. He chanced to look up and saw that Anne had been listening. She wore a look on her face that told him she knew he had lied to Miss Forsythe, for she considered him addicted to much gaming. But he only narrowed his eyes at her, and then yawned. Anne returned her attention to the baby in her arms.
Mr. Barton was happy to be occupied in such a fashion that he did not have to give any of his attention to a child. He’d shrewdly caught on quickly that the Mornay children were welcome into the midst of the adult gatherings whenever Miss Perler or their parents seemed to feel it beneficial for them. If Nigel scraped an elbow, he was brought to his mother. If Miranda was unusually fussy, to mamma she must be brought The Mornays never murmured a complaint at this practice, though Mr. Barton frowned upon it. He was wise enough to keep his sentiments to himself, however.
The Mornays were not fashionable in their treatment of the children. Most upper-class houses acted as though youngsters were non-entities when guests were about. In London, one could almost come to believe that no one had any young children. No one of the fashionable world, that is. They were never in sight, never heard from, rarely spoken of. With the Mornays, it was an entirely different thing. The children must be considered in every decision.
It was an irritation he would live with. But he started thinking of how to broach the subject of the prince’s wishes to Mornay. His safest course was to wait for a good moment and slip it into a conversation that could support it. But how long until that happened? Anne was still as slim as a rail—but her very thinness meant that her condition would likely show up all the more starkly. He had best stop pussy-footing around and get to the point. Soon.
Mr. O’Brien was still agog with his sudden good fortune.
“I take it then,” said Mr. Mornay “that I may put your name forward and that you are available at once?”
“I will write my letters this very day, if I may, sir, to the bishop and my vicar.” He looked up at his host; the man he had considered almost an enemy, but who now was doing him an incomparably generous favour. There were curates by the score who would give anything to have a landowner offer his patronage.
Mr. Mornay reached for a piece of paper. “I’ll write your recommendation this very moment, and perhaps we can squeeze in a visit—even today—so that you can see the place. Mr. Hargrove, the incumbent, cannot be off soon enough. He is above anxious to take up his new living as soon as possible. After he approves of you, he’ll manage the bishop for you.”
He quickly penned the letter, and assured the magistrate that he could send a man that very day, whom Mr. Hargrove could approve personally for the vacancy.
Peter watched in stunned silence. Suddenly Mr. Mornay’s real character was showing—he was an enormously generous man. How had Mr. O’Brien never seen this?
“Where is Mr. Hargrove off to, do you know, sir?”
“Somewhere in the Yorkshire dales, I don’t recall, really. Apparently, he has many relations in that area, and they are eager to welcome him. His new benefice shall supply him a surprisingly substantial income, which is good news for you, for he won’t require any part or share in the glebe.”
O’Brien watched while his former nemesis dipped his pen in ink. The man was behaving in the most disarming, generous manner imaginable. Mr. O’Brien felt remarkably unworthy of such kindness at his hands, for he’d always thought him an unreasonable, difficult character.
He was suddenly of a vastly different opinion.
“I’ll suggest we call upon Mr. Hargrove later today, which ought to send him into raptures; he could not have imagined that we would happen to have a curate in our midst,” he added, with a little smile, speaking as he wrote.
Mr. O’Brien, dazed with the unexpected benevolence, could only exclaim, “Later today?” as one who might be dreaming. “You are confident, sir, (I hope I may ask) that the Ordinary will approve me, then?”
Mornay glanced up only for a second. His mind was on the paper before him, but he replied, quickly, “’Twas the Ordinary who asked me to see to the business. He apparently has a frightfully busy schedule as of his writing to me, and he is prepared to accept the man I chuse.” He laid down his pen, and while he neatly folded the missive, added, “The magistrate of the village of Warwickdon and the Ordinary are one and the same man, you see.” He looked squarely at Mr. O’Brien. “I have one reservation which must be addressed.”
Mr. O’Brien’s heart skipped a beat. “Yes?”
Phillip’s eyes looked hard at the young man. “I hope I can expect that your youthful infatuation for my wife has been fully resolved?”
Mr. O’Brien shut his eyes in a moment of horror, and then opened them wide. “Sir—if I only knew the words to describe the remorse I have suffered regarding my behavior to your wife—the shame I have felt! The memory of my past behaviour is a constant reminder to me of why I must fall to my knees daily and beg God to use me despite my weaknesses and sins, as his minister. I have grown well aware of my own depravity, I am afraid.”
Mr. Mornay was satisfied, and tried to stop him. “That will suffice,” he said.
Mr. O’Brien added, “Just the thought of my…infatuation (he choked out the word)—keeps me ever humble before God, sir. I can never forget it—”
“You needn’t rake yourself over the coals. Receive God’s forgiveness and be done with it, man! I only required knowing that you are no longer harboring any secret hopes of her.”
“No, sir! Upon my honour! Upon my soul—”
“Do not swear to me upon your soul,” he said, scowling. “Your soul is a business between you and God, and has nothing to do with me.”
“Of course, sir, I know it.” Despite his host’s evident annoyance, Mr. O’Brien gave a rueful little smile. The rebuke was spot on.
Mr. Mornay lit the sealing candle and allowed a good dab to fall upon the folded letter; he blew out the stick, pressed his seal into the wax after blowing it somewhat dry, and then stood up, signalling Mr. O’Brien to do the same.
The cleric said, “I don’t know how to thank you, sir. Your generosity to me is quite…quite remarkable!” His host nodded, and he continued, “It was entirely unexpected. I feel I owe you an apology for not—”
Mornay went and rang the bell pull. He said, “I believe you have letters to write, sir.”
“Yes, of course!” Mr. O’Brien must indeed write the vicar of his parish to give notice. He would need to send a letter to the Ordinary of St. Pancras’ as well. He started to say something, took a step toward the desk, behind which his host was again seated. “I can’t thank you enough, sir! I can hardly find the words—”
“No need. Be off with you, then.” His wife would be grateful to see how pleased the man was for this change in his situation, so he said, “Announce your good fortune to the others.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir! My utmost thanks to you, sir!”
Mr. Mornay stood and turned to face his bookshelves, putting his back to the younger man, who was supposed to recognize his cue to be gone. Instead, from behind him, he continued to hear, “I shall never forget this kindness. It means a world of difference to me.”
Mr. Mornay had taken a volume from his shelf, and now opened it as if to read a passage, but he looked at the young man enough to say (in a firm tone reminiscent of his old cutting replies), “Mr. O’Brien. Get yourself to the drawing room, before I change my mind.”
The cleric’s eyes opened wide. “Yes, sir.” And he scrambled off.
When he joined the other guests, Mr. O’Brien’s heart was lighter than it had felt for an age. He knew the warden at St. Pancras would be sorry to see him leave, and even more the vicar, who had transferred nearly all the work of the parish onto the shoulders of Mr. O’Brien and another underpaid curate. When he walked in the room, Ariana chanced to look up and she smiled. His immediate responding grin told her everything she needed to know, and she held out one hand to him, saying, “My compliments to you sir, and my deepest congratulations!”
He bowed over her hand, and then straightened up. The room had fallen quiet at her words, so he looked around to include everyone in the happy news of his new appointment. He felt a small pang of concern when he saw that Beatrice was off to the side at a card table with Barton, alone, but he was too aloft on this cloud of his own good fortune for it to really plague him.
He noticed the presence of a new young woman, a pretty lady who was holding the baby; but the look on her face was one of sorrow. Mr. O’Brien, for a moment, was reminded of the faces of girls in his parish that he saw all too often; girls whose babies were the inevitable result of their working in the “skin trade.” They did it to survive, but had no means to support the babies which often resulted from the business. He blinked and looked again, and recognized the look of hopelessness afflicting the young woman.
Meanwhile, the others were delighted at his news. Beatrice asked, “I understood you were here to apply for Glendover’s living. Was I mistaken?”
He smiled ruefully. “You are correct; but Mr. Mornay has been so good as to refer me to Warwickdon, and I am much obliged to him, I assure you. I did not expect to fill the vacancy at Glendover.”
“If you are content with Warwickdon, sir,” said Beatrice’s mother, “then we are indeed most happy for you.”
“I hope you will all come to tour the vicarage with me, perhaps later today?”
“So soon?” Beatrice’s mamma was all surprise. “How delightful!”
Anne looked up and her face registered only concern. She was sick to her stomach almost every day lately. She was sure it was due to her “condition,” and therefore did everything in her power to hide her complaints. But she did not relish the thought of the outing.
“Astonishing, is it not?” Mr. O’Brien said, to Mrs. Forsythe. “The rector is champing at the bit to be off, and he will welcome me just as soon as I can make the proper arrangements. I shall ask to borrow pen and paper from the Mornays and send my resignation to St. Pancras’ directly.”
“Miss Barton,” said Ariana, realizing belatedly that an introduction had yet to be made: “May I have the honour of presenting Mr. O’Brien to you? He is to be the new vicar, as you have just learned, of our neighbour village of Warwickdon. Mr. O’Brien, I present Miss Barton, the sister of Mr. Barton.”
“An honour, Miss Barton,” said the cleric, with a light bow.
“How do you do, sir?” When she spoke, every vestige of sadness or trouble fled from her expression, and Mr. O’Brien thought he must have been mistaken. She smiled calmly and then properly averted her eyes to the baby on her lap. But her expression also changed, and again Mr. O’Brien felt sure they had a troubled young woman in their midst. Unfortunate as it was, he knew the look.
With that done, there were little pockets of chatter regarding when they would know if the tour was to occur this day or not.
Mr. Mornay appeared and had first to greet his exuberant son who ran to him with a shout of, “Papa! Papa!” He held him easily in one arm, ignoring the hands that were touching his face and neckcloth as though they were curiosities in themselves, and told his wife, “We should hear shortly from Mr. Hargrove, as I’ve sent a good rider.” The boy in his arms then claimed his attention until Mrs. Perler arrived to take her charges to the nursery.
Ariana accompanied her to feed the baby in privacy. Miss Barton had given Miranda up with a word of thanks for the pleasure of holding her—and a sigh—which amused the mamma.
“You are fond of children, Miss Barton.”
“I hope so, Mrs. Mornay.”
Mr. O’Brien did not blink, but he heard her response and mulled it over in his head.
On the way upstairs, Ariana, too, was musing upon the beautiful sister of Mr. Barton. She was quiet and reserved in the way of one who had known sorrow. Mr. Barton was far more gregarious and good-natured; but there was an air of thoughtfulness in Miss Barton’s silence that made Ariana feel nothing but warmly toward her. She hoped, given time, that she would be trusted with the secrets of the lady, and that they might even become excellent friends.
Back in the drawing room, Mr. Barton asked amiably if there was anything of interest in The Chronicle, which was open before Mr. Mornay.
After a pause, Mr. Mornay said, “There is an outbreak of the influenza,” he said, “which appears to have originated in the metropolis, but is slowly spreading to outlying areas.”
“I heard something of that before we left town,” said Mr. Barton. “It is chiefly among the poor; those who do not know enough of sanitary practices to keep their homes healthful.”
“It may be that in part,” said Mr. O’Brien, “but the problem is greatly compounded by the lack of good physicians.”
Beatrice found these remarks interesting as they concerned London, and was all ears.
“Is there a shortage of physicians, sir?” asked Mrs. Forsythe.
Mr. O’Brien answered before Mr. Barton could. “There is no shortage, ma’am, there is merely a lack of men who are brave enough to enter the lanes and tenements where the illness is rampant.”
“Bad show, O’Brien!” exclaimed Mr. Barton. “Many a doctor has ventured into those noxious areas and ended up dead for his trouble, that’s what. We can’t have every physician in London giving themselves up for the sake of the poor.”
“And what if they were rich, sir?” he asked. “Could you spare your physicians for the sake of the rich if they were the ones affected?”
Mr. Barton stopped and smiled a little, as if he realized he’d said the wrong thing, but then he rallied. “I daresay, there would be far less fear surrounding the issue, and many more doctors willing to treat people if they were; for the rich do not suffer themselves to be surrounded by the sources of putrid and noxious vapors that make them ill, as the poor do.”
“As the poor must, you mean, sir.” the curate said. “They have nowhere else to go, nor do they have the means to clean up these filthy tenements that harbor illness.” He paused and added, “In addition to which, physicians can catch sickness from attending the rich as well as the poor. If the lower classes had the means for better quarters, they would take them; and if they had the education to know their mistakes, they could live healthier lives.”
“Education,” said Mr. Barton, “for those who begin their day with gin and end it likewise?”
“There are those who drown their life in gin, to be sure,” agreed the cleric, “but you cannot think they represent the greater mass of the poor who dwell in London.”
“I daresay, I do think so,” said Mr. Barton, who was warming to his subject. “I have seen an innumerable number of them—men, women, and children, alike—who not only drink gin, but beg for it, steal for it, and would die for it, I’ve no doubt. Women and children, sir!”
Beatrice listened with a concerned expression. Her liking of Mr. Barton made her partial to his arguments, but she could not deny the sense of, nor the ring of truth, to everything Mr. O’Brien countered with. It troubled her.
“Mr. Barton,” said Mrs. Royleforst, who had been near dozing, but wakened to his loud tone, “your subject is not fitting for the drawing room, sir!” She looked to her nephew as if, he, too, was to blame.
“I merely mentioned a news item,” he said innocently, though he had to grin.
“Well, read us some more, then,” she demanded.
He eyed her with a sanguine expression, and then turned to the paper. “I quote,” he said, looking to his aunt as though she might challenge him. “From, The London Medical Repository. ‘Fevers are still prevalent…Relapses have been noticed as of frequent occurrence in the instances of the late epidemic.’”
“Epidemic?” asked Mr. O’Brien. “It must have spread very rapidly. I heard nothing of an epidemic before I left my parish, though I did call upon a few families with the fever, and heard of others.”
“But you did not fall ill yourself, sir?” asked Beatrice.
“I never did, no. I have called upon the sick numerous times; it is one of my chief occupations, I’m afraid”. His eyes flicked upon Miss Barton, who listened with interest. “I give no thought to opening myself to harm, and I never did succumb to an illness, even in cases where the sufferer later passed on.” He paused; Mrs. Royleforst leveled a reproving glare at him for continuing what, to her mind, was conversation fit for the tavern.
“I suppose it is God’s grace,” he said. “It is part and parcel of my calling to visit the sick and counsel the distraught.” He looked at Anne unintentionally, but she froze, seeing his look. She turned her head away. The way he’d cast his eyes upon her at that particular moment was distressing. What did he know? And, how could he know it? His eyes were gentle and not reproving, but she felt suddenly exposed, and was distressed, indeed.
Mr. O’Brien looked at Mr. Mornay. “What are the symptoms of the fever?” he asked. “Does it say?”
Mr. Mornay instantly read, “Besides febrile symptoms, there are pains in the legs and back, aching of the bones, and soreness of the flesh, as if the patients had been beaten.” He paused and continued, “‘During the most formidable symptoms, the patient falls into a state of stupor, delirium, or coma, and, in the absence of an extreme perspiration, does not recover.”
“Such a morbid discussion!” said Mrs. Royleforst.
“Indeed!” cried Miss Bluford.
“But it must be wise to stay abreast of these things, ma’am,” offered Beatrice. She was not enjoying the topic, but she did feel it was a necessary precaution to be aware of such things.
“Overstated nonsense,” said Mr. Barton. “I tell you, we’ve just come from London, and we neither saw nor heard a thing of this! Were you to go there today, you would see or hear nothing of it, I assure you.”
“Is that not a shame?” asked Miss Barton quietly, who had applied herself to participate in the discussion in order to appear as though she was not laboring beneath a weight of worries. She looked around at the others. “Is it not a shame that there should be an epidemic in the poorer sections of the city, and yet others should know nothing of it?”
“The rich are always insulated from the poor,” said Mrs. Royleforst. Miss Bluford added, “Indeed!” while nodding her head vigorously.
“Insulate them too well,” murmured Mr. Mornay, “and you get a Revolution. Witness the French.”
Mr. Barton crossed his arms, though he said nothing.
“There has been discussion before the House,” said Mr. O’Brien. “The doctors are hitting heads on how to treat the fevers, whether by bleeding, as in the previous century, or by cordial and similar supports. It’s been a hot topic,” he added, cracking a rare joke.
“A hot topic!” tittered Miss Bluford, to everyone’s surprise. “Excellent, sir!”
“And what has been determined?” asked Mrs. Royleforst. “Concerning the treatment? Which is most effective?”
“Half the physicians treat their patients by trying to force the crisis, keeping them blanketed and in airless rooms; while others swear they see the most recoveries where they have done quite the opposite: opening windows, even moving the sick person out of doors if necessary, for brief periods of airing.”
“Sounds like an old rug being cleaned,” Mrs. Forsythe remarked.
“That’s all very well in the warmer months, I should think,” said Beatrice, “but you cannot mean that exposing the ill to cold wind and weather can help them?”
Mr. O’Brien shrugged. “Many of the worst epidemics occur in the places that are most closed up, which, unfortunately, tends to be the houses of the poor.”
At that moment Ariana came back into the room, and she immediately felt there was something afoot. “Well!” she said, airily. “What have I missed? Are we to see the vicarage?” She paused to smile at her husband and then went toward him, giving him a kiss on the cheek. She had not yet had a chance to thank him for Mr. O’Brien’s new situation. “You were so right, my love,” she whispered to him, leaning down to speak into his ear. “Our curate is delighted with his lot. I thank you for that.”
Beatrice could have blushed; she looked around apprehensively to see if anyone was scandalized by the public display of affection between the pair, but the others in the room seemed to accept it as being just the sort of thing one must expect from the Mornays.