Chapter Thirteen
The next day at breakfast Beatrice ate little, did not attempt to play with Nigel or show the least interest in the baby, and answered only if spoken to. Mr. O’Brien studied her quietly, but she would not return a single look. Her habitual cheerfulness seemed to have deserted her.
Finally she asked Ariana, “Have you decided upon a date for going to London? When I may come too?”
Mrs. Forsythe regarded the girl, but said nothing.
Ariana, surprised, said, “Mr. Mornay and I have not had a chance to speak upon it, actually.” After a pause she added, “The Season won’t begin until near May; there is plenty of time.” She exchanged a look with her husband. His brief meeting with Mr. Barton the previous evening had raised the subject of a trip to Brighton. Mr. Barton had said, “I beg your pardon, sir, for I meant to speak of this to you already, but the time never seemed quite right.”
“Yes?” Mr. Mornay answered.
“I have had a note from His Royal Highness,” Mr. Barton lied. He had settled upon the creation of an imaginary note from the prince as the most innocent way to broach the subject so that it did not appear premeditated. He waited to see if that would sufficiently impress his host, who merely nodded, however, to his disappointment. He went on, “The prince has asked me to get you to him; he desires to move forward with the viscountcy.”
So this is his purpose,” Mr. Mornay thought. Aloud he said, “I did not think you were the man to be on the prince’s business.”
Mr. Barton was unsure as to whether he’d just been insulted. He ignored the possible slight and said, “I have just received the note this very morning, sir.”
Mr. Mornay was duly unimpressed. “Oh? May I see it?”
“I—I don’t have it on me. I’m afraid it’s at the Manor.”
Mr. Mornay nodded shortly and moved to turn away.
Mr. Barton kept up with him. “Have you corresponded with the College of Heralds to settle upon a name for the title, sir?”
Without answering the question, Mr. Mornay merely said, “So he asks you to be his emissary? Why did he not write to me directly?”
Mr. Barton cleared his throat. “I believe he has gone down that path, sir, and found it to be blocked at both ends.”
Mr. Mornay nodded, amused. “I will write to the Regent later this week.” As he started to walk off, he turned back to say, with a knowing look, “You may inform him of such.”
“Thank you, sir.” But his tone was not enthusiastic. His eyes narrowed as he watched the man offer an arm to his wife, who had waited at a polite distance, and then turn toward the house. Dashed if Mornay wasn’t as slippery as a net full of eels! He had made a small step of progress; but it was not the sort of letter he was eager to send the prince. He had to find out when the man meant to accept the title.
As he climbed into the carriage beside Anne, who still had Ariana’s shawl (for she would not take it back), he saw her pull its ends closer about her as she shivered with the cold. She did not ask about Tristan’s words with Mr. Mornay. But suddenly Mr. Barton had a brain child. He’d been speaking to the wrong person. Surely Mrs. Mornay understood her husband’s intentions in the matter.
They would return the next day, and he would ply that lady with his questions. He was bound to fall upon the truth, and then he could write the prince and know some success in the matter! Then, he could turn his thoughts to Miss Forsythe entirely. He had plans for her.
When they were back in the Manor House, Mr. Barton said to his sister, “I was pleased to see you engaging in conversation today. You are much more fetching when you are in a good humour, I must say.”
“I begin to feel better as the day goes on,” Miss Barton said, taking a breath. She removed her bonnet and gloves and gave them to their manservant, and then her redingote. Mr. Barton said, “Huzzah for that. Do you think it will last? This feeling better?”
“I have no idea, to be honest!” she eyed him brightly. “I intend to make the most of it.” But she sighed. “Mrs. Mornay and her mother are the kindest women!”
“What about Miss Forsythe?” he asked, following his sister into their parlour.
“Oh, she is agreeable, to be sure, but she is young, that’s all.”
Mr. Barton went and positioned himself lazily upon the sofa, one leg upon the brow comfortably, taking it down only to allow their manservant to remove his shoes, replacing them with slippers.
“Stoke up the fire, will you, Dilworth?” he said. “It’s dashed chilly in here!” Anne had already wrapped herself in a heavy shawl so that only her arms were free and peeking out, for she had taken up her needlework. She wanted to complete the little booties she was working on. Her next project would require white yarn, for she wished to knit a little dress and cap for Miranda.
Barton sighed loudly.
Anne looked over at him, her lips compressed, for she disapproved of his lackadaisical posture upon the couch.
“Of what are you thinking?” she asked.
“I am thinking of how to accomplish my mission. Mornay is as sly as a weasel; every time I try to learn his thoughts on a matter, he ends up making quick work of me. Dashed if I know how he does it! He is eluding me, and I cannot say whether he is up to tricks, or if it is simply his way.”
“Why should he be up to tricks?” She raised her eyes again to him, a small alarm upon her features. “Do you think he suspects your motives?”
“Why should he? I told him I had a note from the Regent. But I do think he has reservations about me. Don’t know what for, that’s all.” He had a thought. “I hope it isn’t you!”
“That’s impossible!” she said. She thought of her dealings with the man up to now. Whenever his eyes happened to fall upon her, or if he spoke to her, she saw a habitual guardedness in them, which softened upon seeing her. Not in the way the man’s eyes melted at his wife’s look, nothing like that. It was just as though he understood, instinctually perhaps, that Miss Barton was a gentle creature, and required gentle treatment. She said, “He has been nothing but politeness and consideration to me.”
“So it is me he is concerned about.”
“I know what it is!” said the sister, with a sudden realization.
“Well?” he waited.
“You have been flirting shamefully with Miss Forsythe, and he cannot like it. If you would wish to win the man, you must steer clear of his sister.”
“His wife’s sister.”
“Same thing.”
He frowned. “Hmmph! I suppose you have hit it. I will have to proceed carefully, henceforth.”
“What do you mean? Only cease your attentions to her, your little jokes—and you will have an easier path.”
“Well, the thing is, I happen to enjoy giving my attentions to Miss Forsythe, and our little jokes, as you put it. In fact, if she returns my feelings, it may just as likely put him off his guard, as on it. Could he not hold me in favour simply for her sake?”
“You are naive, sir!” Miss Barton was smiling, almost finding it funny that her brother could be so muddle-headed. “Men do not favour other men who show affection for females within their households! You know this to be true.”
He sat up abruptly. “Not necessarily! They might become chums, you know.”
Miss Barton knitted on. “Are you forming a real attachment for Miss Forsythe, Tristan?” Her quiet words held more than their usual gravity, and she stopped working to survey him with curious eyes.
He put his hands behind his head and blew out a breath, thinking. “I do not know, if truth be told. But I do not consider it impossible. She is young, which I like, and above pretty, and agreeable; and she is in Mornay’s family. If I were to get hitched to her—”
“Must you be so vulgar?” Her expression was pained.
He smiled. “If I were to marry her, I would be in Mornay’s family. He would then of necessity favour me, would you not say?”
She said nothing for a moment, concentrating on what was in her hands, but her face wore a deep frown. “Do you see this as your way to convince Mornay to accept the title?”
“To the devil with the title! I’ll be in his family if I win Miss Forsythe! That’s more to my advantage than pleasing the prince; and if he becomes Lord Mornay, or whatever his title, all the better!”
Miss Barton was worried. “I pray you don’t give him a disgust of you, Tristan. I do like them, you know.” She paused, thinking of the new acquaintances. “Each of them—they are all exceedingly kind.” She looked at her brother and her eyes held a plea. “Be careful in how you conduct yourself.”
“I cannot fathom your concern. I am intent upon cementing myself to the family through marriage, and you speak as if I were about to create a chasm.”
“If you truly form an attachment to Miss Forsythe,” she said, “I hope it will be for herself, not for her family connexion. Be thoughtful of her, Tristan. Do not take advantage of her youth.”
He scowled. “Miss Forsythe stands to benefit from our alliance as much as I do! She is seeking a wealthy match, Anne, and I have the fortune to support her in style.”
“You mean, you did have the fortune; but have you not gamed away a good portion of it? Is that not why you sold our family home?”
He shrugged. “You speak as though I am ruined; nothing like it, I assure you!”
“But—” she paused, looking plaintively over at him. “Do you love her, Tristan Barton?”
He looked in surprise at her. “My dear Anne! How can I tell if I love a girl apart from her bringing some advantage to me? The thing is impossible, I tell you! I like her well enough, I’ve said so. May we leave it at that?” He looked pained at having to even consider the matter.
Anne returned to her work. “I sometimes think you are incapable of loving a woman,” she said, quietly.
He heard her, and tried to make sense of her statement, but in the end gave up, and lay back down upon the sofa, replacing his one leg upon the brow comfortably. What was she talking about? He’d loved women before. Almost took on a mistress, dash it! What did Anne know of love, in fact? She was certainly not one to talk, by Jove. He closed his eyes, hoping for a few minutes’ nap.