Chapter Twenty
Ariana was red-eyed and crying when Mr. Mornay found her. She had been unable to stay in the bedchamber but had been drawn, inexorably, as a moth is drawn to a candle’s flame, toward the large Venetian window which overlooked the frontage of the estate. It would hit her very hard to watch the others leaving, but she could not stay away.
So she stood there, standing off to one side so that Nigel would not spy her, and witnessed the departure of her relations. She felt well in mind and body, and it was too, too unfair, this terrible result of a morning’s walk on the property! She felt like an outcast, a leper!
When Phillip came up to her with compassionate eyes, she turned to him with a sob in her throat and fell into his arms. “I am not ill!” she cried. “T’isn’t fair! To be separated from my babies! And now, to keep you apart from them, too!”
He held her up against him in a tight embrace. She sobbed into his shoulder, “No one even said goodbye!”
He gently broke apart from her enough to see her face. “I forbade them. They are with the children. What use is there in this separation if they have contact with you, first?”
After a moment, in which her face appeared as forlorn as before, she frowned saying “Yes, I see. But I still feel like an out..outcast!” She could not help but to cry. And just when everything had been going delightfully! Her mother and sister and Aunt Royleforst, all exulting in the children, and Mr. O’Brien taking the living at Warwickdon, and even the appearance of the Bartons (though she had her doubts about Mr. Barton), was a positive happenstance.
They had been able to hold their own little ball without the worries of having to entertain a crowd of London personages. Dancing at Aspindon House most often occurred only at Harvest Home, or Christmas Hall and Twelfth Night festivities. This had been an elegant little affair without all the noise of the villagers, or the fuss of entertaining the ton. She adored it.
But now all was ruined. She was quarantined, and for what purpose? Because of a chance encounter with Mrs. Taller. She felt terribly sorry for the woman, but she was unable to shake the thought that if she had only not ventured outdoors, none of this would be happening. Why hadn’t she stayed inside? There was every reason to do so—the extreme cold, for one. She might have called for the children and spent time happily playing with Nigel and watching his blossoming relationship with Great Aunt Royleforst and his grandmother.
But no, it was too late.
A feeling of impending tragedy fell upon her. She was like Queen Gertrude, who had just sipped from the cup of poison, though the king tried to stop her in time. She was at death’s door. No, she was like those poor people of Siloam who were out walking just like any other day when the tower of Siloam suddenly fell, crushing them all in a moment! Mrs. Taller had been her tower of Siloam. It was not a comforting thought. Perhaps she was (not for the first time) like Jepthah’s daughter! Sweet innocence, so wrongly repaid! Why, oh why, had she stepped out of the house? Why had she not turned back when her mother spoke of the cold? She was headstrong and foolish!
She clung to her husband in her grief. Phillip was all she had. He had his arms around her still, but he gently began to caress her neck with small, soft kisses. She stopped crying. It felt suddenly different, being almost alone with him in the large house.
She pushed slightly away and surveyed him.
He smiled a little. “You’re adorable when you’ve been crying; your nose and cheeks are pink.”
She sniffed.
He said, “Do not forget that we are only quarantined for a matter of a few days. You are crying as though we’d lost our children forever.”
“It feels that way.”
“We must endeavour to pass the time in some useful employment, or we shall both go mad.”
“I agree. I am already Jepthah’s daughter!”
“What, again?” His look of concern was genuine. “Anyone else?”
“Queen Gertrude.”
“Ah. The poisoned cup.”
“Yes.”
He waited. “That cannot be all.”
“No; I was at Siloam when the tower fell.”
“Of course,” he said, unable to suppress a grin.
She sighed, “Mrs. Taller was my tower of Siloam, I’m afraid!”
He kissed her neck again, and then her face, chuckling lightly. She suddenly felt lighter of heart. It was so wonderful to have him to share her tragic imaginings with. He understood these moments when dark fears assailed her, and a cloud of gloom hung over her. No, it was more than that—a cloud of doom—a sense of inevitable, impending destruction. But Phillip knew how to put his finger on her fears, and his amusement somehow reduced their power over her. It was vastly comforting.
She took his cravat in her hands and played with it, or seemed to, only when she gave it a final light tug, it fell apart. “I love undoing your cravats,” she murmured. “You have a marvelous neck, Mr. Mornay, and though I admire your skill at the cloth, I admire your neck even more.”
Smiling, he swung her up into strong arms and carried her toward their grand bedchamber. Yes?” he said, making her grin back at him, for she could never resist that full, handsome smile, “Is there more you admire that I may know?”
She giggled. “You should ask if there is something I do not admire about you, and then perhaps I could settle upon an answer.”
For response, he stopped and kissed her, lifting her head up with his arm to reach his head. She wrapped her arms around his neck. Afterwards he said, “I should rather you let me tell you what I admire in you, then.” Ariana had heard this before, many times, but the words he used when appreciating her traits aloud were like nectar to her heart.
“By all means!” She was grinning ear to ear.
Still moving along the corridor with her in his arms, he said, “Where shall I begin? I have it. Your golden hair, your golden heart, your golden smile—I admire them all, ardently, passionately, and,” he paused, and eyed her with love, “with my whole heart.”
She melted at his tone. “You feed my heart when you say such things.”
“Then allow me to offer you a banquet.” He paused, eyeing her in between watching their progress through the house. “Your eyes, your nose, your mouth, your ears, your neck—you are like an exquisite sculpture, only far better, being wholly of flesh, and entirely—mine.”
“Yes, utterly yours.” He now stopped at the chamber door, managing to open it with one hand while keeping her in his arms. Still smiling as they entered the room, he kissed her again. And then closed the bedchamber door behind them.
Back at Warwickdon, the guests were trying to make the best of the situation. After they had time to visit their assigned bedchambers and change out of their morning or afternoon dress, they were assembled in the drawing room. True to her word, the cook at Aspindon had sent over a feast. It was the meal she would have served had they remained at the estate.
Beatrice’s gowns were feeling tight so she arrived at the table determined not to make a spectacle of herself by eating too much. The food was so good at Aspindon! Each new course with dishes more delectable than the last. She had seen such artful and imaginative ways of dressing a turbot or goose, or pheasant, since her arrival to the house than she would ever have believed existed. One of her goals, in fact, was to go down to the kitchens and secretly observe the chef as he prepared his exquisite culinary creations. How interesting and unusual it would be!
Mr. Barton had called just before the meal, and so he joined the table with the rest. Unruffled, Petere recalled that they were almost neighbours, though residing in different parishes. It struck him forcefully that in the eyes of the world, he seemed to have accomplished an amazing feat these past few days: Namely, securing a generous living and simultaneously increasing his acquaintance and standing among the gentry. The Mornays were good ton, friends of the Regent, welcome in the highest circles of society; he had never been on an equal footing, and here he was with their relations lining his table.
Somehow it was not the triumph he might have considered it years earlier. He ran his gaze over each of his guests, wondering over the state of their souls. This was his real business in the world; the reason he had taken Holy Orders, and that which he meant to carry out. The business of tending to eternal souls. To many people, it was a business that ought to be reserved for the church or chapel. Religion was too controversial to be acceptable for polite conversation. But here was an opportunity like no other; Mr. O’Brien had these people in his house, and they were worried about Mrs. Mornay; ’twas the perfect time to turn them towards divine help.
He had no desire to offend, but if offense came from such a duty, so be it. However, in the interest of treading lightly for the sake of the nonreligious, he began the meal with a short prayer: “Heavenly Father, for this food we Thee thank; for this day, we Thee bless; for our lives, we Thee entreat, and for our usefulness to Thy kingdom, we Thee pray. Amen.”
In no time, Mr. Barton regaled Miss Forsythe with London on-dits while her mother and Mrs. Royleforst listened. He seemed to have endless stories of London, which amused Miss Forsythe enough so that she was laughing merrily from time to time. In between her laughter, however, she reverted shortly to a look of discomfort. No one could quite forget that they were here at Warwickdon on account of the terrible possibility of Mrs. Mornay falling ill.
“I beg your pardon,” Mr. O’Brien said, getting everyone’s attention. “I have an errand to make, but please continue to make yourselves comfortable. After I return, I will conduct prayers for the Mornay family and the Tallers (their tenants, with the fever). I hope I may expect all my guests to join me in the drawing room, at around nine. Does that suit?” He looked around.
“Excellent, sir,” said Mrs. Forsythe. “I am obliged to you.”
“Yes,” echoed Beatrice. “We are all obliged.”
“I will gladly be there, sir,” said Mrs. Royleforst. Miss Bluford’s head bobbed in quick agreement: “Indeed! Indeed!”
Mr. Barton merely smiled and nodded his head. Rather peculiar, he thought, but Mr. O’Brien was a clergyman. Only to be expected; however, what a dull dog the man was!
At the Manor House, Miss Barton sat quietly knitting by the fire. The dress, cap and little pair of booties already finished and in her basket were for little Miranda. However, she had another cache of little garments, and she was now at work upon a blanket. She hoped to add to the pile continually with little garments and another blanket, for the child. So far she had kept her activities in such endeavours away from the eyes of her brother. He was so cross and vexatious, he was liable to give her a combing for making them, because it reminded him of her condition. But she could think of little else.
In her heart, Miss Barton was dreading the inevitable outcome—that she would have to give up the baby to some unknown country woman! How she longed to tell his lordship of the child! He would be affected by it, she knew. His heart was not coarse; he was not as her brother thought.
Yes, they had been wrong to come together. But was it not also wrong for society to keep them apart? Why could not the world see its way to rewarding true love—from wherever it sprang up—with marriage for the lovers? Would not society be a happier place? It only added to general misery to force people apart when they loved each other, when both were unmarried, available to be wed. Why not to each other? Why not!
When his parents had ruined all their hopes in their “final judgment” (or so they termed it) she and his lordship had met secretly—merely to say goodbye. Neither had any thoughts of disobeying the rules of society, or of morals. But their farewell meeting had wrenched the hearts of them both—so much so that his lordship had kissed her for the first time.
And then—oh, rue the day! He lost his head, and, knowing full well that it could mean her ruin, her banishment from polite society, Anne had not the will to fight his. Thus, her fate had been sealed. She ought never have agreed to the assignation with him. It was wicked and wrong, but she was desperately in love. How could she have refused to say goodbye to him?
She blinked back tears. She laid a hand upon her belly. She had gained some weight, she was sure of it. The child was growing. In a just world she would marry his lordship. Why could his parents not deem his happiness on an equal footing with their social pretensions? Why were not the Bartons considered good enough for a second son?
A clock from another room chimed the hour, and she glanced at the ormolu timepiece upon the mantel. Eight o’clock. No doubt Tristan would stay out as late as his presence would be tolerated at the parsonage. With a sudden hope rising in her breast, she took the candlestick from the table beside her and left the room, heading to her bedchamber. She would write to his lordship! Tristan was wrong to discourage it. In the corridor she saw Peggy, their maid of all work, who said, “Pardon, miss, but would you be wantin’ your tea, now?
“Yes, very good, Peggy. Thank you. Leave it in the drawing room.”
“Aye, miss.” She curtsied and was off.
Miss Barton arrived at her room, and, making her way to her little escritoire, set down her candle, opened a drawer and pulled out a sheet of crisp foolscap, a quill and ink. She sat down and took a deep breath. Where to start? She wrote, My Lord—; but her pen froze in her hand. She could not do it. She could not bring herself to write to Lord Horatio.
What if he wanted nothing to do with her? What if he was glad she had left London and wished never to hear from her? Perhaps Tristan was correct, and now that his lordship had got what he wanted of her, he would turn his back on her. He had to, no matter what he felt or thought, did he not? That was the problem to begin with! She crumpled the paper and closed the ink bottle. It was a mad scheme.
She had just thrown the page into the fireplace when suddenly the maid was back. “There be a gentleman here to see you, ma’am!”
“A gentleman?” Could it be? Had his lordship found her? With a gasp of joy, Miss Barton came to her feet. “Did he give his name?” she asked, while smoothing down her hair, and taking up a small looking-glass to observe herself in.
“Aye, mum; it be Mr. O’Brien.” The maid watched her with large eyes. Miss Barton’s face fell and she swallowed. She slowly replaced the looking glass. “Show him into the parlour, Peggy, and light a few sconces, and a fire. I’ll be right there.” Why was Mr. O’Brien calling upon her, she wondered? And at night?
When Miss Barton entered the parlour, she paused in surprise when she saw that Mrs. Forsythe was there, too. Her face was kindly, however, and so Anne smiled. Holding her stomach, which was a quickly growing habit, she walked over to the settee and sat, facing the other two.
Mr. O’Brien spoke first. “My dear Miss Barton,” he said. “I am here in my official capacity as a curate.”
Mrs. Forsythe said gently to him, “You are a vicar now, sir.”
Mr. O’Brien said, “Oh, indeed! I beg your pardon; as a vicar.” His gentle eyes rested upon Anne’s. “You will forgive me if we are here without cause, I hope?”
“Of course, sir.” But she had a suspicion they had not come without cause.
He looked at Mrs. Forsythe.
“Miss Barton—Anne,” she said, very gently. “We must know if there is anything we can do to be of help to you.”
Anne averted her gaze. They knew! But how could they? Had Barton told them? But why would he?
“I pray you, do not be alarmed, my dear. Your secret is entirely safe with us.”
Miss Barton did not feel safe. She took a deep breath. “What is your mission here?”
Mr. O’Brien said, “We wish to know if anything can be done to help you. But you must confide in us. We can only be of assistance if you allow it.”
She fell silent a moment. “Where is Barton?” she asked.
“Still at the vicarage,” Mrs. Forsythe said. “Mrs. Persimmon is playing the pianoforte and practicing hymn-singing for them.”
She looked amused. “And my brother endures it?”
“He has Miss Forsythe to make it endurable for him. And Mrs. Royleforst to make sure it is only just endurable.” The three shared a smile.
But Anne’s did not last, and soon she had resumed a look of abject sorrow. “I am afraid you can do nothing for me,” she said. Her gaze went up to meet the vicar’s. “Unless you can teach me how to give up a child when it must be done.”
“Is the father unmarried?”
“He is.”
This answer made Mr. O’Brien’s hopes rise in his chest. It might turn out that there was really a way to help this young woman! That is what he had prayed for.
Mrs. Forsythe rose and sat down beside the girl. “Now,” she said, “start at the beginning…”
About half an hour later, the two visitors left, and Anne returned to her room. Only this time she went more confidently to her writing equipment and began a new letter. “My Lord Horatio—” No, she had to scratch that out and take yet a new sheet of paper. She would not use his name in case it fell into the wrong hands. This thought brought fresh tears, but she remembered her conversation just now with the vicar and Mrs. Forsythe and she was able to stop crying. That was a change.
She almost lost her courage a second time, but with the encouragement and the promise from Mr. O’Brien, she found it again. She moved the little flame closer to the sheet before her, and dipped her quill in the ink pot. She would have her say.
“If you do not allow me to get some water into her throat, I tell you, you will lose your daughter to dehydration.” Mr. Speckman’s assistant had returned to the cottage reluctantly, but Giles Taller had been beside himself. He was a large ox of a man, and not one to dismiss lightly, so the doctor’s helper, Mr. Hannon, was back in the stuffy cottage, and giving his professional advice. Mr. Speckman had made him attend the family, for if Mr. Mornay heard that he refused to send a man, he’d be in deep trouble with him. And what explanation could he offer? That he fully expected the girl to die, that it was hopeless? How could he say that to the landowner, when his own wife might have just contracted the very same illness?
Giles Taller had indeed felt desperate. Not only his daughter, but his wife was now extremely ill; what if he lost the both of them? His other children were whimpering from their beds, because their mamma was ignoring them. They had inexplicably overcome the same illness that was threatening the lives of their mother and sister. They would have been wailing inconsolably had the fierceness in their father’s tone and eyes not cowered them into mere whimpering. He was generally a good papa, and affectionate. But something in his attitude, a thing which the children could intuit, as children did at times, caused them to lower their cries, and make do with clinging to one another, and watching the proceedings with large, frightened eyes. With any luck, they would fall asleep.
Meanwhile, Mr. Hannon had taken a vial of water and forced open the child’s senseless mouth, directing the flow to the side of her throat where it would be swallowed into the stomach. Giles held up MaryAnn’s head for the operation, but it was a slow business. Mr. Hannon knew that to accidentally allow the liquid to slosh to the centre of her throat could mean she would inhale it, which would be a disaster. Drops of sweat fell from his face, but still he held the vial up to the girl’s mouth. When this was done, he would have to do the same thing to the mother. In his experience, if they did not die from the complications of the fever, sufferers died from the accompanying dehydration. He hoped to prevent that from happening.