Chapter Ten
Mr. Hargrove received the letter from Aspindon House with great joy. He motioned for the servant to wait, and hurried into his study to pen a reply.
“Mrs. Persimmon!” he called excitedly. A lady soon appeared from the kitchen, still removing her apron. She was both housekeeper and cook for the establishment, a thing which would strike any Londoner as an odd co-existence; but for country cottages, servants’ doubling up on duties was not at all unusual. There was also a single manservant, dressed in worn ivory-colored breeches and a waistcoat and jacket. He accepted the apron with a nod, and went to return it to its place.
Mrs. Persimmon wore a white cap, from which some thick graying curls peeked out. She was of a matronly age, perhaps fifty, and had been pretty in her youth. She had large, light eyes and an expression that seemed to be always just upon the point of saying something, or expecting a request. She was eager to please.
“Mrs. Persimmon!” the man exclaimed again upon her appearance. “Can you conceive of it? Mr. Mornay has a curate to send to me directly!” (He rolled the “r” in the last word as if to emphasize the astonishing immediacy of the fact.)
“Directly, sir?” she asked, amazed, but with a dawning worry upon her heart. “How directly?”
“He comes to see the vicarage this very day!” The man was practically whistling with excitement, but Mrs. Persimmon cried, “Mercy me! This very day! And the house in such a disorder!”
The rector’s expression sobered. “My dear woman,” he said more sternly. “It is only to be expected that I must be about my packing. It will not signify, I assure you.”
“Yes, sir,” she said at once, turning to go. “Shall I prepare some refreshments for you and your guest, sir?”
“Yes, do, refreshments, of course. Very good, Mrs. Persimmon.”
Mr. Hargrove wrote out his response for the owner of Aspindon House and gave it to the messenger, who took off with it apace. The rector then continued pulling pieces of paper from his drawer. He had more writing to do, and he best had get it done. He had letters to pen for the leading families of the area, as a courtesy. One for the magistrate, even though Mr. Mornay had mentioned notifying him as well. One for the bishop; a copy for the warden; one for his relations in the north. He hoped that after meeting the new man today he might even be able to supply them with a possible date for his installation as their new vicar.
His blood seemed to surge in his veins while he wrote. Ah, there was nothing like good fortune to make a man feel young. He hoped that this Peter O’Brien would be willing to step into his shoes as quickly as possible—though not literally in them, but as a vicar. Sunday next would not be too soon for him. His congregation would be unhappy that he was leaving during Lent, but what could he do? His new congregation expressly wished to have him for the Day of Resurrection, and here the Lord seemed to have provided his way of escape from Warwickdon. It was out of his hands.
Anne Barton excused herself and went in search of a place of privacy—unfortunately the only room that came to mind was the water closet, but she knew that even in a great house like Aspindon, the slightest unsavoury odor would only make her feel worse.
She had not felt up to being in society today, and was cross that she had allowed Tristan to bully her into it. But when would she feel better? She had not felt well for weeks—and knew why—and therefore hid her condition from Tristan as much as possible. He would only heap abuse upon her if he knew, for instance, that following every meal, she had to give it up into a chamber pot.
Her brother considered her like a thorn in his side; his disgust of her was sufficiently daunting that she had to make sure she gave him no further complaint to hold against her. She tried to hide her growing thinness by always wearing a shawl, or at home, a robe over her morning gowns.
She caught the eye of a footman in the corridor. “What room is this, if you please?” She nodded toward a door which he seemed to be standing guard before.
“The library, mum.”
“Oh, excellent,” she said, a little weakly. She was not going to make it much farther. He opened the door for her and she went into a beautiful, cozy room, warmly wainscoted and with an abundance of shelves lined with books. There was no fire, so it was cold, but she looked around hurriedly for a vessel, a chamber pot, anything. Spying a small coal scuttle, she picked it up like treasure. It would have to do.
Six minutes later, her composure regained, Miss Barton exited the library and headed back toward the drawing room. A maid had been about to enter, evidently prepared to start a fire for her.
“Thank you, but that won’t be necessary,” she said.
She hoped the girl would not notice that someone had been sick and then dumped the evidence in the grate. She had seen no other place to discard it. She sniffed, and went her way.
Peter O’Brien waited only long enough for the slight young woman to go some distance from the library, before turning the handle quietly and slipping into the room. He had a suspicion, and needed to know. He looked around for a likely object and spied the very same vessel Miss Barton had seen. In less than a minute he had deduced what he needed to know, and left the library with a thoughtful look upon his face.
All the guests at Aspindon wished to see the parsonage, which would now be called a vicarage. Even Anne, feeling somewhat better, was curious. Despite a deep winter chill in the air, the sky was blue and inviting, and the sun, high in the sky. Since Mr. Hargrove was happy to open his home upon so short a notice, they all bundled into coats and hats and gloves and boots for the drive.
Phillip opted to use an open barouche; it was rarely used during winter, but the bright clear sky and sun, the lack of snow or ice on the roads, together with the fact that Ariana expressed a preference for it over a closed carriage, made him willing to do so.
Ariana considered that the tenants delighted so much in spying the couple if they rode in it, that it was worth a little discomfort of cold to lift their spirits. Also, the occupants of the barouche were able to see a great deal more of the country as opposed to those in closed carriages, so the vehicle was quickly wiped down and brought forth.
Ariana wore a walking-out dress of striped yellow cambric; her sleeves were gathered above the elbow and again at the forearm, and there were pretty, laced cuffs. More lace adorned the bodice, below which was a striped silk ribbon belt, a contrasting ribbon train, and above, a velvety brown spencer and redingote. She had a fine woolen shawl draped over a yellow silk bonnet adorned with flowers to complete her outfit, along with half-boots, and a muff.
The rest of the party squeezed into the barouche except for Mrs. Forsythe, Aunt Royleforst and Miss Bluford, who had opted for the closed carriage.
“Beatrice, I meant to tell you, “Ariana said, looking past her husband, “that gown is lovely on you!” Beatrice thanked her, but blushed faintly; she hoped no one else of the company knew that it had been given her by Ariana the day before. Phillip eyed her now, and of course he knew, his eyes revealed that he knew, but he said nothing. The walking-out gown was of printed taffeta lustring, in lilac and yellow, but Beatrice’s pelisse was lined and sturdy, with a raised neck that offered further protection from wintry winds. Her bonnet included the lining of a bow-tied cap, which did much to keep her warm. Like her sister, she also sported half-boots, and a muff, as did Miss Barton.
Ariana’s arm was entwined with her husband’s, and she snuggled into him as the carriage picked up speed. How could she not enjoy the outing with Phillip? His varied pursuits usually kept him busy from such types of excursions. Besides the business of the estate, he served as magistrate for the parish and sometimes sat for hours on end, though he always tried to make quick work of any matter brought to him. He was surprised to discover that he enjoyed seeing justice served. Every now and then he had to sentence a criminal to Newgate, or worse, recommend hanging. But he avoided doing so whenever possible.
Ariana’s gaze wandered to the occupants sitting across from her. If only she could ascertain whether there was an interest on the part of Mr. O’Brien for her sister, or vice versa, she might have reason to ask one last time about granting the living to the cleric. She had seen him leave the drawing room shortly upon the heels of Miss Barton, however, and reflected that he might prefer the quiet young woman of a serious nature to the outspoken, pleasure-loving sister of hers. She sighed.
And now he had Warwickdon and would be in mind of starting a family, no doubt. She had seen the place once before, when Phillip had brought her to meet Mr. Hargrove. It was an ample and respectable house, and, unlike many parsonages, designed to hold a large family. Glendover, the benefice of their parish, boasted an even finer dwelling. Whoever designed these homes evidently understood that clergymen liked to raise families as much as anyone. The Glendover dwelling stood three stories tall in the dignified Georgian manner; had windows aplenty, and was kept up well by the warden in the absence of an occupant.
Ariana could happily envision her sister living there. Her mother, father and Lucy could take a nearby house, and the whole family saving the Norledges (her sister Alberta and Johnathan Norledge, who owned a large property in Chesterton) would be closely situated again. How comfortable it would be!
As Mr. O’Brien and Mr. Barton kept up a small conversation, Ariana reflected on having the curate back in her circle of acquaintance. How surprising life was! She felt certain already that he had improved in his character—he was no longer the impetuous boy who had taken advantage of her to steal a kiss. He was a man now. And his polite aloofness was just the way he had ought to treat a married lady, she thought.
He was not bad-looking, either, she thought, studying him from her spot across the barouche. His hair was no longer blonde, but still wavy; little wisps around his ears could be seen below the hat. His style of cravat seemed to have improved, which she could see above the deep cut of his coat. He had thick, light brows and a face that seemed to be perpetually sporting the stubble of a day’s growth. It actually added to his allure, whereas even Phillip could look rather sinister without a fresh shave every morning. She wondered if the man simply lacked the right shaving tool. The short stubble, however, was golden brown, and did not hide a strong, wide chin. He had a decisive forehead, it seemed to her now, too.
Suddenly Ariana felt her husband’s eyes upon her. He murmured, “Enjoying the scenery? Or is it just our curate that fascinates you?” He didn’t sound irked, merely amused.
She turned to him, bright-eyed. With care not to speak above a whisper, she said, “I am just imagining.”
He stifled a smile. “Regarding..?”
“The match,” she whispered. “How convenient if we should not have to search for a husband for Beatrice when we are in London!”
“You are still setting your hopes upon it.”
Keeping her voice carefully low, she said, “Perhaps it is my own happiness in love that makes me inclined to do so. My experience of having a husband is so pleasant I can do naught but wish that women everywhere were married as I am. Husbands are a wonderful breed,” she added, smiling at him. His eyes sparkled at her, but before he could say anything, Mr. Barton, who had been watching the pair with an unreadable expression, said, “I think we should have given the barouche to the Mornays alone; they are determined to speak only to each other.”
“Actually,” returned Mr. Mornay, “we were speaking of marriage. Is that a subject you take an interest in, sir?”
Mr. Barton smiled, as though he were up for a game. “I daresay every gentleman must take an interest in it sooner or later.”
“And is your interest sooner, or later?” Mr. Mornay quickly returned.
Barton smiled again.
Beatrice felt her toes begin to curl—but she was all ears.
Mr. Barton finally said, “I can have no serious interest in marriage, sir, until there is a young lady with whom I may hope to share that estate, do you not agree?” He kept his eyes steadily upon his host and did not so much as glance at Beatrice. She, for some reason, was blushing lightly, however. Ariana saw his careful avoidance of her sister, and felt a small alarm. That kind of care was not without purpose; he must, then, entertain hopes of her, she thought.
Ariana did not dislike the man, though she knew her husband found him wanting; but she did feel a caution regarding him in her spirit. She would need to know more of him before willingly allowing him an interest in Beatrice.
Mr. O’Brien said, “Without a young woman in particular, you may still have an interest in your future marriage; you must know whether or not you intend to marry, and whether it will be for pleasure, er, rather, love, let us say, or duty.”
“Is not marriage something to enter chiefly for duty?” asked Beatrice, who did not consider herself to be of a romantic nature at all, though all her thoughts of marriage proved quite the opposite. She smiled, adding, “That is what my mamma says.”
“My mother said that?” asked Ariana. “I am sure she would be the first woman to protest that one must marry for love, not duty alone,” she added, sitting forward to look curiously around Phillip at her younger sister.
Barton volunteered, “Chiefly for duty, indeed; do we not see it done all the time? More young women and first sons are sacrificed to ‘duty’ than should be allowable in any society.”
“So you think some sacrifices should be allowable? Only not so many,” Mr. Mornay said, as though he was determined to plague the man at every opportunity.
“There are times when the preservation of one’s estate or title depends upon the sacrifice of a son or daughter’s preference in marriage. Would you not agree?”
“Royals must marry for duty,” murmured Ariana. “It is a price they pay for that station. And I pity them for it.”
“And those who have large properties and must have an heir,” said Barton. He looked at Mr. Mornay and added, “You have a large property, to be sure, sir. Did you marry for duty?”
Coming as this question did in the presence of his wife, it was felt as no less than a challenge. It might have been that Mr. Barton was trying to understand the family fortunes of the Forsythes. It might have been an attempt to have Mr. Mornay admit that he had; whatever the motive, Mr. Mornay did not take kindly to the question. He was framing a cutting reply when Mr. O’Brien, surprisingly, beat him to the quick.
“Have you no eyes, sir? The Mornays share a love that every aspirant of marriage might study to their benefit. If you cannot honestly respect and adore your spouse in the manner of their example, then in my opinion, marriage should not be sought except for the most urgent of reasons.”
Ariana smiled at this description.
Mr. Barton said, “That is my point, sir; there are urgent reasons, such as when a title might go defunct; or there is no heir to a large estate.”
“In some few cases,” admitted Mr. O’Brien. “But for the average man, his challenge is to find a good wife, to love her well, and trust his fortunes to God.”
“I believe we are hearing one of Mr. O’Brien’s sermons,” said Mr. Barton, to the company.
“If so, I like it a great deal,” said Ariana.
“This is all neither here nor there,” put in Beatrice, in a tone that was rather irked. “’Tis all well and good for a man to say he shall marry for love. But for a woman, it is entirely a different matter! She could love herself straight into poverty or ruin—.”
Miss Barton had been inconspicuously silent heretofore, but was overcome by a sudden coughing fit. When she had sufficiently recovered herself Beatrice continued, “As I daresay many a woman has, and shall continue to do, for a woman is subject to her emotions to a much greater degree than men seem to be.”
“I cannot abide with that,” said Ariana. “Men have feelings every bit as strong as a woman’s!”
“But they temper their actions and behavior based upon their reason more than their feelings,” returned Beatrice. “Whereas we women, though it might be our ruin, will love a man whether he be right for us, or not.” She added quickly, “Most women, that is. I fancy myself too level-headed to make that mistake.”
Miss Barton raised an agonized pair of eyes to Beatrice’s, which only Mr. O’Brien—and Mr. Mornay’s sharp eyes—seemed cognizant of. Miss Barton felt as though Beatrice was pouring vinegar into her every wound. She felt ill again.
Mr. Barton said, “A man may temper his actions based on reason, as you say, but he may still be subject to being snared by the wrong woman, just as a woman may place her heart on the wrong man.”
“Snared by his heart, or his actions, sir?”
“Does it signify?” he returned. “A man must be as cautious in love as a woman, which is my point.”
“On the other hand,” added Mr. O’Brien, “women must sometimes marry for duty, as much as a man. They are quite often charged with saving the family from ruin or starvation by making a good match. Is this not so?”
Miss Barton wrapped her arms about her middle; Ariana wondered if she suffered from the cold, or had some other ailment.
“In either case,” the cleric continued, “I am convinced that any two people can learn to love one another; or failing a spontaneous, deep love, may grow into a steady and mature sort of love. The kind that is required of us as Christians, at least. It is my firm belief that no marriage is doomed to fail without the consent of the parties in it.”
“Those are strong words,” said Mr. Barton, wonderingly. He was of the mind that saw marriage primarily as a union of convenience, to have children, perhaps; but certainly not as a thing to devote oneself to.
“Think of it,” said Mr. O’Brien, very much warmed to the subject, “At the very heart of marriage is the means of survival, the continuance of our race. Regardless of our emotions upon entering into that estate, the end result is that families are born, and mankind continues.”
“And yet marriage, sir, is sometimes prohibited regardless of emotions. When, if there is love, it ought to be honored with marriage,” added Miss Barton, who seemed to speak feelingly.
“Miss Barton,” said Mr. Mornay. “Are you unwell?” For his keen eyes could not miss her growing discomfort.
“My sister is fine,” put in her brother quickly—a little too quickly, so that everyone looked at him in surprise. “The outdoor air is always difficult for her,” he added. To Anne he said, “I daresay, you should have worn one of your veils. It might have afforded you sufficient protection.”
“Oh, veils are nothing!” said Ariana. But she removed her shawl and passed it to Miss Barton. “Take this, Miss Barton. The air is cold. Cover your face to the eyes; and when we return, use the closed carriage with my mother and aunt.”
Miss Barton tried to smile. “I thank you,” she said, doing as she was bade. She ignored her brother.
They arrived at Warwickdon. The scenery had been little noticed or remarked upon. Ariana was sure that Mr. Barton’s ideas could only be injurious to any woman he might take as wife; but how to say so to her sister without raising her ire? She might inadvertently push the girl into his arms by outright opposition to him. She would speak to Phillip about it. He always knew how to proceed in tricky matters.