Chapter Eleven
When they alighted from the carriage and stood admiring the parsonage from the road, Miss Barton said, “A capital dwelling, sir,” in her quiet voice. Mr. Mornay’s inquiry had alarmed her, so she was attempting to come out of her brown study.
Peter thanked her kindly.
“It is a charming little house,” said Beatrice.
“Little!” laughed Ariana. “’Tis smaller than Glendover, but lacks only one storey more to be the size of our father’s house.” It was a picturesque dwelling of two stories, not counting the basement and garret.
“It is fine, I grant, for a vicarage, for a parson’s family,” returned Beatrice, as though Mr. O’Brien was not in hearing range, “but after staying at Aspindon, you can hardly expect me to find it commodious.”
“One does not compare a vicarage with a fine estate,” Ariana chided, wishing her sister had been kinder in her comments. That girl! Why were her sights set so high? To make matters worse, Beatrice turned around to face her, still walking forward (which in this case, meant backwards, now) to say, “I daresay I know your thoughts. That I must not wish to be mistress of a large estate, as you are. But I warrant you,” she announced, with an earnest gaze “that where there is sufficient character, and manners, and good connexions, a personal lack of wealth is not at all the obstacle to an advantageous match that many think.”
Ariana stared at her sister, shocked that Beatrice had shown her hand so completely. She had as much as declared that she was hoping to wed a rich man based upon her charms or “connexions,” and not her fortune. Despite any amount of talk of the ideals of marrying for love, every person in the party knew that this young woman, for one, was no idealist. And that included Mr. O’Brien. Was Beatrice determined against him, then, she wondered?
Beatrice hoped that she had made herself known to Mr. O’Brien with those words. Now he would never think to raise the issue of her old absurd promise.
Mr. Barton, with a small smile, looked appreciatively at Beatrice. She was bold indeed, but now he understood perfectly her situation. He’d been right in thinking she had little in the way of money, but much in the way of connexions. She understood that marriages could be based upon that, and she approved of the practice! He was beginning to think that he and Miss Forsythe would actually make more than a match of convenience, though it would be that for him. They might even be suited to one another in temperament. They both looked at life and marriage as matters of supreme practicality, not with overly romantic notions of “love.”
Mr. O’Brien had bent his head in thought and now offered a response aimed primarily at Beatrice. “I am sure you are right in some cases; only do keep in mind that a strong character is necessary for the proper use of the privileges and advantages that such a marriage may provide. Unless we are dull of heart, we must maintain a good conscience before God in all that we do, whether it be choosing our friends—” he hesitated here—“or our spouse.”
Beatrice was listening without looking at him. “Spoken like a good curate, sir,” she said, in a tone that was mildly dismissive.
Ariana glanced at her husband, half expecting him to offer some reproving remark to the girl, but he said nothing. Oh, dear. These few minutes of talk had certainly not supported Ariana’s hopes of match-making in the least.
Suddenly Mr. Hargrove hurried out to greet them. He was a large-bellied man, which was evident despite the great coat, knee breeches and shoes. His hat was brown, and in the style of a country parson. If he had sported a white wig and curls, Ariana would not have been surprised, but she could see, as he approached, grinning and gesturing, gray strands of hair that escaped his hat. After a few minutes during which he bustled them into the hall of the dwelling, introductions were made and niceties said. A footman ran up from the Mornays other carriage, as Mrs. Forsythe came up the path behind him.
“Mrs. Royleforst wishes to inform, sir, that she is returning to the house; she is satisfied with having seen the parsonage from the coach.” Mr. Mornay understood that she had not liked what had appeared to her as a property requiring a great deal of walking. He nodded. “Fine. See that the coach is returned to us; we’ll need it when we leave here.”
Mr. Hargrove had waited politely, smiling and nodding at the others, but now burst into a happy exclamation to Mr. Mornay. “I cannot say how overjoyed I was, to get your correspondence, sir!” He turned to Mr. O’Brien, and in the same hurried manner peppered him with a series of utterances, not waiting for a single response. “You will be happy here, my boy, very happy, I daresay.”
“I have a thousand little things I must remember to tell you!”
“How soon, sir, can you see your way to occupying the house?”
“Can you preside for services Sunday next?”
“I will show you every foot of the place, but I think we must start on the grounds.”
Mr. Mornay cut in, “Is that necessary? It is cold for the ladies, you understand.”
He seemed struck by that thought. “Oh, yes, sir, oh, yes, indeed, we must think of the ladies, of course!” He ushered them into a good sized, somewhat elegant parlour. “I will tell you about the grounds, since it is too cold,” he said, while checking the grate and then hollering, “Sykes!”
A manservant appeared, to whom he said, “It is a sniveling fire, my dear man!” Sykes hurriedly attended to the fireplace, not quietly, but no one cared. Warmth was their concern. Afterwards, Sykes began to collect the hats, coats, and scarves of the guests, while Mr. Hargrove pulled up a sturdy stool from near the fireplace so he could face everyone in the room at once.
“Yes, well, let me begin, then. I am ecstatic to meet you sir,” (again, to Mr. O’Brien).
“You were going to tell us about the grounds of the property,” said Mr. Mornay.
“Oh yes! The grounds, of course. You won’t be disappointed, my boy; you won’t be disappointed!”
He spoke fast; no one could look away for a moment lest they miss something.
“Let me see—the grounds; we have a moderate glebe of 150 acres, which I have planted these past ten years, sir. I have already ordered this year’s seed, which I have the honour of offering to you at cost. I have no use for it in Yorkshire, as very few crops grow successfully there! (He laughed at this.) If these terms are suitable for you, sir, I will take the liberty of deducting the cost of the seed from your salary, and I daresay you should have it covered quite soon, quite soon, my boy, etcetera, and company, and so on.”
“Sell it to him at half-price,” said Mr. Mornay. “He is coming to your aid, taking over your parish with all possible speed. I think an allowance can be made for him under the circumstances.”
Mr. O’Brien would never have presumed to negotiate, but this was Mr. Mornay doing it for him. He looked to Mr. Hargrove. The rector’s face had dropped for a moment, but this was Mr. Mornay—he said, “If you say so, sir, he shall have it at half-price.”
He went on: “There is a dovecote, replete with doves.” Leaning in conspiratorially he added, “You will always have the softest of mattresses and pillows, my boy, as well as meat on your table, from it. Mrs. Persimmon—she is your housekeeper and cook—is expert at dressing pigeon and doves and very skilled in the art of cleaning and using feathers, etcetera and company and so on.” All eyes turned to Mr. O’Brien to see his reaction to this interesting bit of information.
He said, “Very good, sir,” which seemed to satisfy the rector.
He continued, talking speedily. “You have a chicken coop with some excellent layers, sir, the very best layers, I daresay, in this countryside; you have a dairy, sir, and a buttery; a sty (though I confess I have no pig in it at present, but you may get yourself one); you have a front garden (which is perhaps not ideally situated, I allow, since a small park would be more fetching to the eye); but I assure you there will soon be an abundance of violets and spring bulbs aplenty to colour the garden, so that your landscape will be a profusion of cheerful hues, etcetera and company and so on.”
Mr. O’Brien was smiling, listening to the delightful catalogue of his future property.
“Sykes and Mrs. Persimmon, as both have family here, sir, and were born and raised in Warwickdon, etcetera and company, are staying with the house, and so on. And they are loyal and faithful and will serve you well; and Mrs. Persimmon, I must say, is an excellent cook, sir.” He paused to collect his breath before steaming on. (A second of respite!) “You will pay their salaries for now on, of course, but it won’t break you, sir! It won’t break you.”
He thought for a moment. “I am leaving a good deal of records of all the running of this household in my study. I shan’t need a bit of it where I’m going; and Mrs. Persimmon will help you find what you need, etcetera; the names of who to call in the village when your fields are ready, or your fence needs mending, and so on.”
Beatrice whispered to Mr. Barton, “He forgot to say ‘and so on and company,’” to which he grinned, and she let out a giggle. Mr. Hargrove ceased talking abruptly and stared at her as if he were quite in shock.
“Was something funny?” he asked, in earnest. “What was funny?” He continued to ask until Mrs. Forsythe said, in her kindest tone, “Please continue, sir. We are all enthralled by your vicarage.” She and Ariana both sent frowning looks at Beatrice.
He looked gratified, finally forgot about something being funny, and finished his speech while staring at Mr. O’Brien. “I do believe that is all I have to tell you,” he finished, as though he himself were surprised. “Mrs. Persimmon will show the whole of the house to you and your guests now, sir, etcetera, and Sykes and I will have everything ready for tea at your return, and company and so on.”
Ariana herself had to stifle a smile, while Beatrice exchanged comical looks with Mr. Barton. They filed from the room after Mrs. Persimmon, with Mr. O’Brien right behind her.
“Wait!” called Mr. Hargrove, before they had so much as got five feet from the room. He appeared in the doorway, and he looked alarmed. “Did you see the church?” he asked the group, with widened eyes.
“Only from the road, sir,” said Mr. O’Brien.
“Well, well, you must needs see it, you know; very fine church; very fine.” He thought for a moment. “After seeing the house, we should go there, directly. Show you where things are, etcetera.” His countenance brightened. “And then we’ll all be comfortable together and take our tea, eh? Does that suit?”
Beatrice had been hoping that tea might be served before the tour, but she said nothing. Mr. Barton caught her eyes, however, and he shook his head in the negative, as if Mr. Hargrove was a dim-wit. She stifled a giggle.
Mrs. Persimmon waited in the hall. “As you can see,” she said in a tone that was calculated to be of sufficient volume to reach the entire group in her charge, “we have a very fine old wainscoting. This house was built in 1701,” she said, “and has enjoyed only four occupants;” Her gaze fell upon Mr. O’Brien. “Prior to Mr. O’Brien, that is. He will be the fifth.” She spoke loudly and carefully, pronouncing her words as though she was addressing a group of children.
When later they had reached the bedchambers, Mrs. Persimmon turned to them and with eyes sparkling, assured Mr. O’Brien that he would “find it is quite a large abode, indeed. Quite fit for a sizeable family.” She smiled broadly. “Mr. O’Brien will be the second parson to raise a family in this house!”
Mr. O’Brien said, “I hope I may, ma’am.”
Ariana and her mother smiled, while the others said nothing.
Later, Beatrice had to admit that it was a good-sized house, and quite roomy. In addition to the hall and parlour, there was a hall chamber, parlour chamber, drawing room, and library; and upstairs, four separate bed chambers, as well as a maid’s chamber and a room that looked to be a nursery at one time, or schoolroom; and off the kitchen, a cheese chamber. The library held four leather chairs and a great quantity of books, most of which, Mrs. Persimmon said, belonged to the house.
She pointed out every object that was staying; this settee, that set of wing chairs, a modest chandelier, and other furnishings. Even the drapery was mentioned, with the added information that Mrs. Persimmon prided herself on keeping it “spankingly clean.”
“Etcetera and company and so on,” murmured Mr. Barton behind Beatrice’s ear. She dared not laugh aloud, but smiled and gave him a mock look of reproval.
While they all filed back downstairs, the housekeeper stopped on the staircase to say to Mr. O’Brien, “Sir, I do not wonder at your finding yourself a wife directly, and setting up housekeeping. It is all ready for you; your future wife will consider herself fortunate, indeed, I assure you.”
Her eye fell upon Beatrice. “Is this young lady so fortunate as to be in way of becoming Mrs. O’Brien, may I ask?”
Beatrice blushed furiously. “We are mere acquaintances, ma’am!”
She smiled without the least bit of repentance for having been so direct. Her gaze roamed to Miss Barton, and as soon as her brow went up Miss Barton smiled but exclaimed, “No, ma’am! We have only just met.” Looking back to the young cleric, she said, “No matter; A handsome young sprig as you are should have plenty offspring about you soon enough, I warrant!”
Ariana and Mr. Mornay exchanged amused, surprised glances. Mr. Barton muttered something about the “bald pluck” of the servant, but Miss Barton said, “She means kindly. Do hush, Tristan!”
Mr. O’Brien was amused more than embarrassed. He was in too much rapture at his good fortune to allow anything to spoil the day. He would no longer be a perpetual curate, but a vicar! It meant a rise in salary, in situation, and in respectability! He was told, additionally, that a circulating church warden would see to the care of the building. There was a part-time clerk, and now his own little house with two servants! He had to force himself not to let his heart swell with pride.
By the time the little party had seen every room and admired them sufficiently, they were happy to sit in the drawing room to enjoy refreshments. Mr. Mornay suggested that some warming beverages would fortify the women before returning to the cold out of doors to see the church. Mr. Hargrove was pleased to defer.
Mrs. Persimmon helped Sykes serve the guests, while Mr. Hargrove sat close by Mr. O’Brien and shared notes upon the clerical life, “etcetera, and company, and so on.” It was a pleasant hour, except that Ariana and Mrs. Forsythe were still somewhat mortified by the behavior of Beatrice and Mr. Barton. They sat rather too close to one another, and only joined the general conversation when obliged to.
Mr. Barton, in fact, seemed intent upon one thing only: making Beatrice laugh. She was in a mood to be amused, and found whatever he did funny. He mimicked Mr. Hargrove—she giggled. He pointed to a strange little portrait—she snickered. He feigned boredom and a long-suffering attitude—she chuckled and nodded in agreement. Beatrice was not trying to encourage him to misbehavior, but was oppressed by the length of time they had been listening to Mr. Hargrove and Mrs. Persimmon. She was also happy to be distracted from a host of disturbing, intrusive thoughts that she disliked.
For instance, when seeing the nursery, she had thought, What a perfect little room for children! The vision of children upon the floor playing with toys came to mind. She did not welcome it. Children in that room would not be her children. The mother of the household would not be she!
It also irked her that she could not shirk the feeling she ought to be paying close attention to it all, as though it must matter to her. It doesn’t matter to me, she kept telling herself. Her antics with Mr. Barton were largely in defiance of these feelings—she would not be serious! She would not ever consider marrying Mr. O’Brien!
And then, the realization that she had thought such a thought seemed so absurd to her that she laughed out loud. Mr. O’Brien had not offered for her—why was she thinking such plaguing thoughts to begin with? Even Mr. Barton gazed at her in surprise, though he slowly smiled at her. No one else did, though.
Mrs. Forsythe endeavored to catch her daughter’s attention, but Beatrice refused to acknowledge her. Beatrice is behaving like a lack-wit! she thought. Mr. O’Brien was doing an admirable job of completely ignoring her; which was the only comfort Mrs. Forsythe could take during the whole affair.