Chapter Fifteen
“I think we must go after them,” Ariana said.
“I agree.” Her husband rose and spoke to the footmen who were standing against the walls in the dining room, as footmen usually did when not needed at the moment. “Tell Fotch to join me, as well as two or three of you who can ride.”
“I can ride, sir!” His tone was eager, as footmen did not often get to ride.
“As can I, sir,” said the other, firmly.
“Send a man to the stables quickly so the horses can be readied. And let’s to it, men!” He paused, and then added, “Dress warmly.”
“Yes, sir!”
In minutes a group of men were following their master to the stable yard, where a groom and a stable hand were leading out horses for them, all harnessed and ready for a rider.
Mr. Mornay stopped to pat the head of his own horse, Tornado. It was a 16-hand black stallion, bred in his own stables, and never ridden by anyone but him. He spoke softly to it while the others began mounting, and then in another minute he was astride as well. He turned his horse around to face the men, and quickly gave orders. Fotch would ride with him; the others were to go off in various directions on the grounds, all in search of the missing couple. Each man was given a weapon and was to fire off a shot in the air if he found the missing couple, alerting the others.
When they trotted off, Fotch said, “It’s hard to believe that yesterday was so fair, sir! This weather has taken a nasty turn!”
“Indeed. I’m afraid it may have caught them by surprise. Let us hope we do not find them stuck somewhere.”
“How might they be stuck, sir, if I might ask?” asked Fotch, who had no imagination for such things.
“Supposing Miss Forsythe was to get hurt; I can easily imagine her keeping Mr. O’Brien with her for fear of being alone. And he might just be pigeon-headed enough to think it the right thing to do.”
“Aye, sir, I see what you mean,” the valet nodded. He started looking around carefully as they entered the path that wound through the woods going southeast.
Mr. Mornay kept his pace at a slow trot, slowing more when the woods grew dense, stopping now and again to listen.
“Give a yell,” he said, at such times. Fotch would take one hand from the reins, cup his mouth and shout, with all his might: “Mis-ter O-Briiiiii-en!” Not a sound. “Miss For-syyyyythe!” Nothing.
They continued on.
Ariana was impatiently looking out the south windows of the grounds, but continued to see nothing of her sister or Mr. O’Brien.
“I cannot account for so long an absence in this cold,” she said. “Our property is not dangerous; there is a ravine, but that is on the far side of the land, and I do not think they could have possibly walked that distance.”
“A ravine!” exclaimed Mrs. Forsythe. She was obligingly playing at wooden soldiers with Nigel but she looked up in alarm.
“Mamma, I should not have mentioned it; they could not have reached it with less than a day’s walk.”
“Oh.” The lady returned to the game, now picking up all the fallen soldiers that Nigel had mercilessly murdered with his toy black cannon. “You win again!” she exclaimed, to his delight.
“I beat the Frenchmen, Mamma!” he cried happily. He had actually turned his cannon upon the men in the Regent’s colours, but Mrs. Forsythe wasn’t about to ruin his joy with the facts.
Ariana paused to congratulate her son, opening her arms and giving him, when he arrived at her legs breathlessly, an earnest kiss upon the head. “Well done, sir!” she cried. “Your father will be proud.”
“Yes, Mamma!” But he stopped and yawned, and Ariana looked at Mrs. Perler.
“Yes, ma’am,” she said, instantly getting up and coming toward the child. “It is high time for Master Nigel’s nap, to be sure.”
“Not my nap!” he cried. “Please, Mamma, make Mrs. Perler leave me be! I do not wish for a nap!”
Ariana bent to one knee to speak to the boy at eye level. “When you get to the nursery,” she said, in a conspiratorial whisper, “you may pretend to nap. Take a toy with you into your bed and play. Mrs. Perler will never know.” This was a little game Ariana used to get her son to sleep. He would take the toy with him, ostensibly to avoid his nap, but inevitably fall asleep.
“Lately, ma’am, Master Nigel refuses to get into his bed for his nap.”
“He will fall asleep at playing, and you can put him to bed, then.” She went and bent over her sleeping baby, as Miranda had already been fed and changed, and she said, after planting a soft kiss on the infant’s head, “Call for me when she awakes and will not go back to sleep. Not until then.”
“Yes, ma’am.” The lady curtsied, and, after picking up Miranda, took a sad looking Nigel by the hand, and made her way from the room.
Ariana was instantly all briskness. “Mamma, I am too restless to sit here and wait. I wish to go walking myself; I should have had Mr. Mornay take me with him.”
“Well, there is no sense in my staying put, then.”
“Mrs. Royleforst will be happy of your company.”
“I have seen neither hide nor hair of that lady today, nor her little Miss Bluford. I daresay Mrs. Royleforst is having one of her topsy-turvy days.”
Ariana nodded; she was familiar with her aunt’s “tospy-turvy” days. It meant that when Mrs. Royleforst tried to get out of bed in the morning, she was struck with a heavy feeling in her head (top-heavy, she called it); if she persisted, she got light-headed. Hence, it was a topsy-turvy day. Miss Bluford came in very handy for such days, as the regular servants would have been put out to do so much for a guest. Knowing Phillip’s relation was being tended to, Ariana therefore said, “Let us go!” and the two ladies left the room in quick succession.
Beatrice sighed and sat back, enjoying the warmth that was now emanating from the grate. Mr. O’Brien, right from his chair, was tending the fire now and again as though Beatrice’s legs weren’t still resting upon him, ending with a giant muff that he had to duck around now and then as he aimed his poker at the coals.
“Mr. O’Brien,” she said, “my feet are better. They are neither hot nor cold, nor prickling with a thousand pins.” She held the muff and extracted her stockinged feet, trying not to feel silly. “You have been excellent, and I am much obliged to you. But surely my sister and my mother must be growing perplexed at our absence.”
“I have had much the same thought,” he said, rising from his seat, “but I did not wish to distress you with it.”
“I am obliged,” she said, looking at him appreciatively.
“I must put out the fire,” he said. “I don’t like to leave an empty house with something burning in it. Wait a minute, if you please. Warm your muff and boots close to it before we must leave.”
In truth he was concerned about the return journey. One mile on a nice day would have been nothing, but in the cold, and for feet that had already suffered a frost, he knew they would easily succumb to the same problem again. He was near the front door, wondering if there might be a running brook nearby for water to douse the fire—when he had a new thought.
“Miss Forsythe—I think it best if I leave you here with the fire, while I return to the house and get you a mount.”
She looked up at him, her eyes large as she considered his words. “Oh, I do not think it necessary,” she answered, standing up. She had been warming her boots obediently, and now went to put them on. She sat back down and inserted one foot, saying, “Oh! I have warmed it too well!”
“It will cool soon enough,” he murmured, watching. “In fact, I do think our best course is to avoid your having to walk any distance in this weather. I promise you, I will make haste. You can lock the door behind me.” He started preparing to leave, putting on his greatcoat.
“No!” she cried, and then was embarrassed by her own fear. In a lower voice, she said, “We do not even know for certain that this is the parsonage. What if we are…trespassing?”
“This is certainly Mr. Mornay’s land, and you are a member of the family; I do not think you can be accused of anything; particularly when your reason for coming in was so dire.”
She looked around. The cottage had lost none of its rustic charm, but she did not want to be left alone there. She looked to him and shook her head. “It’s no good; I cannot stay alone.”
His face softened, but he said, “There is a bar for the door which you may close once I leave. You’ll be safe here, I’m certain.”
“I’ll be miserable and worrying the whole time.”
“That’s better than to be frost-bit again.” He wrapped himself in his muffler, and put on his gloves. She tied her boots and stood, and hurried over before he could leave. She got right in front of him. “I’m afraid that, where you go, I go.” Belatedly she realized that the allusion of that statement came from the book of Ruth, implying a “til death do us part” sort of commitment, and she blushed faintly. Oh, fie, he couldn’t think I meant anything by that!
And, though his clear blue eyes were fastened on hers, and may even have twinkled, being the good and sensible man that Mr. O’Brien was, he made absolutely no remark or joke, or anything to make her suspect that he did. How kind! Mr. O’Brien was a gentleman—he cared about her sensibilities.
“Miss Forsythe; I insist that you stay. Your sister will never forgive me were I to allow any harm to come to you; I was remiss in letting us walk so far as we did. I cannot make that mistake again.”
Beatrice listened, but with growing determination. She was too alarmed at the thought of being alone there to allow him to have his way. It was sweet—almost amusing—for him to try and protect her feet, but it was the rest of her that Beatrice was worried about. “I am sorry for it, sir,” she said, with a smile, removing his hand from her arm where he was holding her back; “My sister will understand when you tell her how adamant I was in accompanying you back to the house. She knows that I am…”
“Willful?” he supplied, with a sideways smile.
“I was going to say, ‘strong-minded,’” she replied, still smiling. Pulling on her gloves she said, brightly, “Well! Shall we go?”
He looked at her wryly a moment. “Miss Beatrice,” he said, softly, getting her full attention. When they were acquainted in the past she had been ‘Miss Beatrice’, and suddenly days gone by were coming back at her. He put out his hand. “May I see your gloves?” She had just put them on, and she held out her hands. He peered at them a moment, and then suddenly took both of her hands and swiftly pulled the gloves off!
“What are you doing?” she asked, and then immediately knew. He was not going to let her accompany him!
“I still have a muff!” she cried, and grabbing it, made a dash for the door. He was too much the gentleman to stop her. She thought.
He pulled her back with a surprising strength, and with a sigh, said, into the back of her head, “Must you make me take hold of you to keep you safe? You are being…naughty!”
She said, “No, sir! You are! You ought not to have touched me!” She pushed away and turned to face him, but in a few seconds they started to laugh. He had already massaged her feet at length! He looked at her appraisingly.
“If I allow you to leave this cottage, do you think Mr. Mornay will ever hold me in the least respect?”
“He already does,” she said, knowing nothing about it.
His brows went up. “No. Your feet, once having frozen, are more prone to it.” He looked outside. “It only gets later and colder. You must listen to me, and stay put. I will run the entire distance, or at least until I drop from exhaustion.” Her eyes widened with alarm, but he grinned.
“I’m jesting; I won’t drop from exhaustion, I assure you. I will run, Miss Forsythe. You have only to stay by the fire like a good girl for a short while. Now, do I have your word?”
She looked around at the place. It might have been cozy, with more candlelight and cheery furnishings, but it had an empty look about it. She knew the moment he left she would feel a vague fright. It would be nameless and unreasonable, perhaps, but she would feel it, just the same.
She looked at him plaintively. “I cannot stay. Please let me accompany you.”
He was puzzled. “Why cannot you?”
She sighed heavily. “I will be frightened here alone.” She despised herself for being such a coward, but she had to tell him. He would not let her leave with him otherwise.
He walked over to her, and once again reached for her hands. She thought he would give her the gloves, but he had already stuffed them into a pocket. Instead he held her hands within his own larger ones, and said, “Allow me to pray for you.” His eyes were so kind and compassionate, that she did.
He prayed simply, and to the point. He thanked God for their safety and the use of the cottage, and for the restoration of Beatrice’s feet with no lasting injury. And he prayed for the mighty hand of God to rest over her and this little house, for angels to minister at its doors and windows, standing guard, and to keep her, now and eternally, safe.
Beatrice was struck by his words. His earnest, wonderful, gentle words. He was so caring! She had a terrible urge to reach up and kiss his cheek. But instead she turned away and went and sat by the fireplace. “Lock the door, please,” she said, in a quiet voice.
“I’ll be back for you as quickly as possible!”
What on earth was wrong with her? One minute she was angry and resentful that she might not have a rich husband like Ariana; the next she wanted nothing more than to fall into Mr. O’Brien’s arms!
It was madness. It was irritating. She wanted two things, and could not have them both. If she were to open her heart to the curate, she was kissing her dreams of grandeur goodbye. If she did not, she would never forget his kind ways and earnestness, and large blue eyes, and handsome demeanour…..Oh, it was too vexing to think upon!
She caught movement from the corner of her eye and looked out a window just in time to see the last of Mr. O’Brien disappearing into the wood. He was running.
Peter estimated he had run about half the distance when he had to stop and catch his breath. He used his woolen muffler to protect his lungs from the cold, and was about to resume his trek when he heard the sound of a horse approaching, and let out a cry of, “Ho, there!”
He saw the animal first, and then its rider, but did not recognize the man immediately. The rider said, “Whooa,” and pulled on the reins, and then clip clopped up to the cleric. The horse whinnied to a stop. “Here you are!” the man said. “I see I’m still in time to be of service.”
Mr. Barton pressed his heels lightly into the horse’s side and circled Mr. O’Brien, making it arduous for the curate to speak to him, but he said, “You can be of service, sir, by lending me your horse!”
Mr. Barton eyed him and then asked, “Where is Miss Forsythe?”
Mr. O’Brien fell silent. He did not wish to send Barton to a woman alone. Finally, he said, “Make room for me; I’ll take you to her.”
He climbed atop the horse, and directed them back to the cottage. Beatrice, watching from a window was ecstatic at the speed at which she was being rescued. She burst out the front door before the men had a chance to reach it. As they rode up, she saw Mr. Barton first, and smiled in surprise. His face was drawn. She realized Mr. O’Brien was behind him as he got off the animal. He held out a hand to her, and she came forward.
“Come,” Mr. Barton said, “extending his hand toward Beatrice. I shall return you to the house at once. Help her up, will you, O’Brien?”
Peter lifted Beatrice as high as he could, looking deeply into her eyes when they chanced to be close to his. Mr. Barton did his part to bring up her up securely in front of him. She sat with his arms holding the reins on either side of her, her legs on one side. Mr. Barton put one arm protectively about her middle, while tightening up his hold on the reins.
With a nod, he dug in his heels, and Beatrice felt a stab of regret as they turned around to be off. “Thank you!” she cried to Mr. O’Brien, looking tall and dignified in front of the cottage. “Thank you!”
He acknowledged her words with a simple nod, but there was a look on his face that said he shared her regret. It was not an expression she had seen on him ever before.
Peter found a black coal scuttle into which he scooped out the hot coals and toted them outside. He carefully scraped every last bit of ash just to be safe, and then finally blew out the candle lamp and the smaller candle. In the dark, he found the door, and then closed it behind him. He was mildly worried that Mr. Barton would not return Beatrice directly to the house, but there was nothing he could do at the moment. He wrapped his muffler again more securely about his neck, and adjusted his hat. Bending his head against the cold, he started the long walk back.
Beatrice didn’t usually ride a tall horse, and never with a man. She was uncomfortable and a little bit frightened at how far the ground was, not to mention the jerking of the animal. Mr. Barton could tell she was scared, and he tightened his grip about her.
“Do not worry,” he said, “I’ve got you!” And he did; but in her mind she kept seeing the face of Mr. O’Brien as they’d trotted away from him. She wished he had been the rider holding her about the middle.
“Perhaps you would do better to slow down,” she yelled. He seemed not to have heard her, but Beatrice would not turn her face toward his—not when she was practically in the man’s lap. He was able to speak right into her ear, however, and he yelled, “I am delighted to be of service to you, Miss Forsythe!”
She winced. He did not need to yell for her to hear, though it was necessary for her to yell for him to hear. Suddenly a man was there ahead, upon a great black horse, blocking the path with his large mount. Barton slowed down, and they came abreast of each other. Without a word, the man lifted a rifle from somewhere, and Beatrice’s heart jumped into her throat! What was happening? But she caught a glimpse of a handsome face beneath the hat, behind the high collar—it was Mr. Mornay! Thank God!
Mr. Mornay held the gun in one hand, and balancing it against his leg, cocked it, and sent a shot into the air. Beatrice jumped despite herself, making Mr. Barton tighten his grasp. If Mr. Mornay had been surprised to find Mr. Barton on his property, with one of his own horses, and his sister-in-law almost in his arms, he did not show it. Mr. Fotch appeared on his animal.
“Where’s O’Brien?” Mr. Mornay asked.
“We left him about half a mile back, I should think,” said Mr. Barton.
He leveled his gaze at Beatrice, who felt suddenly like a naughty child caught doing something mischievous. “Is all well?” he asked her.
“Yes.”
“No one hurt or anything?”
She paused. “No; nothing of moment.” He caught a note of hesitation in her voice, and eyed her for a moment, but looking back to Barton, said, “Obliged, Barton. Take her to the house. I’ll check on O’Brien.”
He nudged his horse forward, already rehearsing in his mind a few choice words for that young man. Was he always trouble? Everywhere he went? Or was it only to plague Mr. Mornay that his appearance always seemed to coincide with some sort of ill happenstance? At any case, he wanted to give him a good combing for it. A gentleman should know better than to worry half the household, not to mention going off alone for hours with a young woman, unchaperoned. He moved on, ready to deliver himself of such thoughts to the man.