Chapter Twenty-Nine
By the time word had spread that Mrs. Mornay had survived the crisis, Mr. Barton was back in London. He threw himself into his clubs and gaming at tables, and congratulated himself on finding an escape from the tedium of the countryside. During quieter moments, he saw the pretty face of Miss Forsythe, or heard her delightful laughter, or detected a sparkle of mischief in her bright eyes. It was a pity, that’s what. He decided he’d make the return drive soon and find out the state of things before giving her up entirely.
He did not have the latest report—that Ariana had survived the crisis—so instead the news went around swiftly that she was in grave danger. The Regent himself heard it, and sent a gift for the children. He did not know what else to do.
Then, exactly three days after Ariana had awoken from her sickness, word trickled in of her recovery. Mr. Barton had still been dragging his steps and hadn’t returned to Middlesex, but at this news he made haste and was on the road speedily. Now that he knew his course, he wanted to accomplish it betimes; before that deuced parson had a chance to usurp his place.
Ariana grew stronger by the day, but her husband made it clear to Beatrice that his wife would not be setting foot in London until she was fully recovered. When she accepted this information without a qualm, he assumed it was on account of her good sense in the matter. She understood her sister could not be rushing about from soirée to ballroom after having suffered such a devastating illness. Little did he think her meek acquiescence had far less to do with Ariana than with Beatrice’s changing hopes.
As for Beatrice, she no longer wished for a Season in London. Why? Because she no longer cared to meet other gentlemen. She could travel the seven seas, she felt, and still not forget the gentle, earnest eyes of Mr. O’Brien. She could meet a thousand eligible gentlemen, but not one would have the sweet low voice of the man she loved.
It was true that the vicar had nothing so fine as an Aspindon; he was not a man about town; he was not a glib, amusing Mr. Barton. And yet, somehow she had become thankful he was not. In fact, she appreciated him all the more for it. A finer house might have been a boon, but in her heart she had developed this feeling that where she lived was not nearly as important as whom she lived with. What’s more, she couldn’t shake an annoying idea that she belonged in the vicarage, at Mr. O’Brien’s side! All this, despite not knowing whether Mr. O’Brien thought her a foolish girl, not worth his time. He had not given any indication that he thought otherwise.
She had not seen the man since the day he brought her to the estate, the same day that Ariana had overcome the worst of her danger. But she thought of him often. If only she had not expressed an interest in a fine house! In a Season in London! In Mr. Barton! How foolish her words sounded to her own ears, now!
“Miss Beatrice,” said Mrs. Pellham, for she had been at table when Mr. Mornay let fall the news regarding a London Season. “You might consider returning to the metropolis with Mr. Pellham and myself. I no longer have the consequence I had when your sister was with me; but I can show you a very diverting time, I am sure.”
Mr. Pellham nodded his head, saying, “To be sure, your aunt is superb at gathering invitations.”
“Why, thank you, Randolph!” the matron crooned.
“I am much obliged, Aunt Pellham,” replied Beatrice. “Only I must tell you, at present I have no wish to go to London.”
Mr. Mornay held his fork in mid-air. Ariana had taken the meal in her chamber, or she would have stared in amazement at her sister.
Mrs. Pellham said, “No wish for a Season? Well, I beg your pardon! I understood you desired a coming out.”
Embarrassed, Beatrice replied, “I mean no disrespect, ma’am.” She dabbed her mouth with a linen cloth. “Perhaps if I had some time—to consider your offer?”
“Of course you may,” she answered. This struck Mrs. Pellham as reasonable. She no longer felt a strong need to sponsor a girl for the Season. Marrying Randolph seemed to have satisfied some part of her that had used to need the attention. Her offer to Beatrice, therefore, was all the more generous in that it was entirely unselfish. She did have a few last words, however, which she lost no time in parting with:“Do recall that your sister will now be Lady Mornay, as your brother has finally had the sense to accept the honour of a title. A viscountess! My niece!” She beamed at Mr. Mornay with more than her usual approval.
Mr. Mornay made no outward acknowledgment that he’d heard this, and merely finished his coffee. He put down the cup and looked at Beatrice. “I’d like a word with you, if I may.”
Beatrice rose and followed her brother-in-law from the room, nervously fingering the sash on her gown. As they moved along the wide corridor he said nothing and she was too afraid to ask why he wanted to speak with her. She could think of nothing she had done that might deserve a combing from him, try as she might. And though Mr. Mornay by reputation had a fierce temper, he had never, she reminded herself, turned it upon her.
He stopped at his study and Beatrice swallowed. She’d seen the room in passing, but had never been inside the handsome chamber, with its ponderous mahogany desk and wainscoted walls lined with bookshelves. To her, it was Mr. Mornay’s private sanctum. When he shut the door behind them, motioned her to a chair before the desk and took his seat behind it, she wondered if she was about to experience the first real set-down she’d ever received from her famously irascible relation.
Mr. Mornay gave a wry look at his young relation and asked, “What has made you think better of a London Season?”
She gazed at him with an odd expression on her face. She cleared her throat. Her eyes searched the walls, and he was reminded of his wife—sisters, indeed. He continued to look at her expectantly.
She said, “I suppose I am thankful that my sister is well; if I do go to Town, I should prefer it to be with her and you, sir; not my aunt and uncle.”
“Your aunt is likely to put forth a greater expenditure upon you than either myself or your sister. You may wish to reconsider.”
She nodded, but seemed unimpressed.
Interesting, he thought.
“If Ariana does go to London,” he added, “she will still spend much time with the children. Your aunt is more likely to keep your social calendar engaged to your satisfaction.”
Beatrice nodded again. “That—I mean—it is of no matter!”
He sat back and surveyed her thoughtfully. “There is something you are not telling me.”
An immediate look of alarm in her eyes confirmed this for him. She shifted in her seat and said with her eyes down, “I now agree with my mother, that I’m not ready for a London Season, sir.”
He rubbed his chin with one hand, considering this. He didn’t believe it for a second. She's in love with Barton, he thought. He gave Beatrice a searching look—and she blushed crimson.
“Tell me,” he said.
“Tell you?” she echoed, looking at him in alarm.
“Yes, let’s have it.”
“But—tell you what, sir?”
He crossed his arms and put his head back as though he had all the patience in the world.
“Why you are suddenly not interested in having a Season, when you’ve harped about little else since the day you arrived.”
Beatrice gave him a most tragical look. Then she nodded to herself as if coming to a decision. She said firmly, “My mother, sir, does not favor the idea.”
He nodded slowly. “Indeed,” he said, for he did not believe her still. He gave her an apprising look and said, “In that case, I must tell you that during your sister’s illness I had much time to consider things—one of them being the day you disappeared upon the estate with Mr. O’Brien.”
This caught her attention and she looked up at him with interest. “Yes?”
“I have come to the conclusion—” he paused, as if searching for the right way to put it—“that the incident was sufficiently compromising to your character so that it is best for you to wed.”
Beatrice gasped, struck with amazement, her eyes wide. She could not help it and had to smile; and then seemed to be blinking back glad tears. All of this beneath the watchful gaze of her brother-in-law. By Jove, his suspicion was correct—the girl was in love! No wonder she had given up London!
“It may help you to understand that the young man has already spoken to me,” he said.
Her eyes lit up. “He did?” She bit her lip to keep from smiling idiotically. She was almost overcome with relief. So Mr. O’Brien did care for her! He’d spoken to Mr. Mornay! Her heart felt light and giddy—she could hardly contain herself. But then Mr. Mornay said, “I will write to Mr. Barton at once.”
Beatrice gasped. “Mr. Barton!” she cried. “Surely you do not think I can wed Mr. Barton!”
He stopped in surprise. “He offered for you, regardless of the incident with O’Brien. If you had gone to London, an incident here would have been of no account. But his offer makes an easy escape for you, under the circumstances.”
“Escape? From what and to what?” she asked, bitterly. “From an incident that meant nothing to begin with, (though you have all made much of it!) and to what? A life with Mr. Barton? You call that an escape?”
Mr. Mornay looked amused, but he added, “Barton will keep you in style; he can buy the Manor House, and you can be neighbour to your sister. Does this not please you?”
Beatrice was suddenly taking deep breaths, too distraught to say anything. She leapt to her feet and began pacing, her arms crossed. “I can never marry Mr. Barton! Was I compromised (as you insist upon calling it) by Mr. Barton? No! Was I taken care of by Mr. Barton? No!” She looked at him as though he was pigeon-headed. Blinking back tears, she said, “Is he a good, kind, man who fears the Lord? No! Is he gentle and soft-spoken and wise? No!” She stopped before him and opened her arms in exasperation. “Do you honestly believe he would make me a good husband?”
Mr. Mornay was trying not to smile. But he said softly, “No!”
“Oh! Then you shan’t try to force me to wed him?”
Her startled words brought out the full, handsome smile. “By no means! I have little patience for the man. I only proposed it because I thought you preferred him.”
Beatrice stared at him for a second. In unison, because he saw it coming, they both cried, “NO!”
How auspicious, he thought. His wife would be delighted to discover that her sister had fallen in love with their young cleric.
Weak with relief, Beatrice sat back down upon the chair facing his desk, holding one arm across her stomach. A maid scratched at the door, came in and built up the fire, but she paid no heed to her. Beatrice looked up at him, smiling. “You are the best and kindest of brothers, sir! You are the best and kindest!”
He nodded, smiling. “May I tell your sister, or do you insist upon the pleasure?”
Beatrice looked askance for a moment. “Oh, you may tell her!” she breathed. She was still letting the marvelous turn of events sink in upon her. She and Mr. O’Brien would be married! But then a terrible thought occurred to her. “Sir!” She caught him before he left the room. “What if Mr. O’Brien does not wish to marry me?”
Mr. Mornay looked at her with mild eyes. “I do not think you will have that problem.”
That afternoon, Mr. Barton showed up at the doorstep of the vicarage. He was delighted, he told the ladies in the parlour, to learn the good news regarding Mrs. Mornay. Miss Forsythe was not present, but he would ask about her soon enough.
“And how does Lord and Lady Horatio?” asked Mrs. Forsythe.
“Very well indeed, ma’am, I thank you. It seems that Lady Weverly has decided that she adores my sister; this has put her in the good graces of her new mother and father, and all is as well as it could be. For now.”
Mrs. Royleforst caught those ending words. “For now, sir? What mean you by that, pray?”
“Did I say that? How foolish of me, for I meant not a thing! What I need to know,” he said, looking around the room (and smoothly changing the subject), “is whether it is now safe to call upon the Mornays.”
“We think it best, on account of the children, Mr. Barton, to wait a few days more.”
“There is always the devilish possibility,” said Mrs. Royleforst, “that my nephew may fall ill.”
“I see,” he said. “And Miss Forsythe? Is she well?”
“She is at Aspindon, but well, I thank you, sir,” said her mother.
“Splendid,” he said, “Splendid, indeed.”
“Will you join us for the evening meal?” asked Mr. O’Brien. He did not relish having the man stay but his manners were too good for him not to ask. Mr. Barton, however, declined the offer. With no Beatrice there to amuse him, he would be bored to pieces if he stayed. Even more, while he did not wish to expose himself to any disease, he needed to settle the matter of his wedding. He would write to Mornay, make a solid offer, and be done with it. He could return to London a happy man, and stay clear until every last threat of illness was gone. He would then marry Beatrice and buy the Manor House. It was a delightful plan.
Mr. Mornay opened the missive which had just been delivered by Mr. Barton to his butler. He understood why the man had not wished to come into the house—but it did nothing to raise him in his estimation. In his letter, Barton asked for the hand of Miss Forsythe.
Having only just come from his wife’s bedside, where he had regaled her with the very welcome news of Beatrice’s surprising disclosure, he knew exactly how to reply.
Mr. Barton was delighted to receive a quick response to his offer. But as he read the response—then re-read it—he considered that there had to be some way to answer this and change the girl’s mind. How could she possibly prefer a country clergyman to him—for he just knew that O’Brien had to be the reason for this rejection. It lacked sense. He finally concluded that Mr. Mornay, for some inexplicable reason, preferred the “old acquaintance” to himself, but he did not believe it was Beatrice’s sentiment. He crumpled the note and threw it into the fireplace. He would see about this. He would not give her up that easily.
The next few days passed slowly. Mr. Mornay carried his wife downstairs one day; the next, she came down herself. It was wonderful to see her improvement, but there was a small sadness in the household, nevertheless, for the children were absent.
“I cannot stand it for another minute!” she said on the next day. “Fetch me my children this day, sir, or I will go mad!” Mr. Mornay folded his arms and stared for a moment at his beautiful wife. Then he smiled.
“Master Nigel, come, you are to go to your mamma!” Mrs. Forsythe’s joy could hardly be contained as she summoned the little boy. The child, dark curls bobbing, dropped the wooden toy he’d been holding in a crouched position, and sprang to his feet. Eagerly he shouted, “Mamma! Huzzah!” The baby was hastily dressed and made ready as well, to be bundled off for Mr. Mornay’s carriage which awaited them.
First Nigel greeted his papa by standing stock still with a gasp for a second, upon seeing him in the parlour. Mr. Mornay’s eyes were fastened on the boy, and he held out his arms. The child bolted forward and into those arms, which swung him up into a tight embrace. Nigel clung to his father so tightly about the neck that Mr. Mornay had to gently loosen his grasp just a little.
During the drive, Mr. Mornay kept his son upon his lap and kissed his head, and played with him, and listened to him with endless patience. He feasted his eyes on his daughter, too. When they reached the house, the children were brought to the drawing room, where Ariana was seated on a comfortable divan fluffed with pillows, but she stood as soon as they entered the room, and watched with joy while her son ran toward her. She dropped to one knee and held her arms open for him. The little one flew into her embrace.
“Mamma! Mamma! Where were you? Where were you?”
“Oh, my Nigel, I missed you!” she said, blinking away tears, and giving him an almost crushing hug, for she could not embrace him tightly enough. She turned her face and began kissing his head and cheeks, and murmuring what a good boy he was, and savoring this long-awaited reunion with her whole heart. She ceased kissing and petting his face and held him again tightly against her chest, though he began wriggling from her.
“My new toys!” he cried. “Do you want to see them, Mamma?”
“Yes!” she answered, still beholding him like an angel sent from heaven. Meanwhile, Mrs. Perler brought the baby and Ariana held out her arms, and this time she could not blink back some tears.
“Look, Mamma!” Nigel had a complete new set of exquisitely formed and painted wooden soldiers, and now brandished a few in his hands—they were of the prince’s colours. When Ariana noticed their superior craftsmanship, Mrs. Forsythe said, “A gift from the Regent, my love. When he heard of your illness.”
“Oh!” She admired the pieces prettily not just for Nigel’s sake, but because they really were tiny works of art. Mrs. Perler pulled a few more of the Dragoons from an apron pocket and Nigel shouted, “See how many, Mamma? From the king!”
“The prince, my love,” she corrected.
“No, he’s the king, Mamma! He has to be the king!” His little face went into a pout. She said, “We cannot make people what we would have them be, but must accept them as they are, my pet.”
Some of the toy men were on their knees, aiming a weapon at an imaginary foe. Others were on horseback, and the horses were fashioned as carefully and with as much detail as the men. The prince himself was represented by a good, tall fellow (much taller than the Regent, in reality), who held up a sword in one hand while his other arm pointed forward, as if to direct his troop to battle. His costume even included a little blue sash across his chest, which, unlike the other painted figures, was made of real silk. And the hat he wore had real minuscule tassels spouting from the centre.
“Has anyone sent a thank you to the prince?” Ariana asked. “How long ago were these received?”
“Just the other day, and I did send a note of thanks with the messenger who delivered them. At that time, my sweet, we were not certain of your survival”—and here Mrs. Forsythe stopped, her eyes filling with tears just at the thought of how close a brush Ariana had endured with death. “And perhaps it would be a kindness to send another message, telling him of God’s mercy upon you and us all.”
“Now I think on it,” said Ariana, “Mr. Mornay can give our thanks, as he is to see the prince when he is ennobled.”
“To think, you will be Lady Mornay, now!” Her mother smiled at her proudly.
Meanwhile, Nigel was yanking upon his mother’s gown.
“And you,” said Ariana, looking fondly down at him, “Will be ‘the Honourable’ Nigel, sir! On paper, at any rate.”
Ignoring this he cried, “Will you play with me and my men, Mamma? You can be the king!”
“You mean the prince, sir,” she said, playfully.
“Mamma, why can he not be king?”
She smiled. “Because the real king is his father! And he lives, still.”
Nigel frowned. “Why is he not here? I want the king, too, Mamma!”
“This is the prince’s regiment, sir! You have the honour of being their master, and that must satisfy you.”
“I want to show them to Papa again,” he said, for they had already been taken out and admired during the carriage ride.
She took his little chin in her hand and made him look up at her. “Today you will stay for tea with the grown-ups! Right in this room, too!”
“Tea! Huzzah! An—an—biscuits?” he asked, his dark black eyes large in his face. Ariana smiled; Nigel’s eyes were so like his father’s.
“Of course!” She nodded to the servants, who left to fetch the tea. Nigel had suddenly desired to climb into her lap, however, and so she gave up the baby to Mrs. Perler. Nigel was studying her and he put his little hands on each side of her face. “You look different, Mamma.”
“Mamma was ill; but I am better, now.”
He nodded earnestly and sank against her, hugging her fiercely.
The tray was brought in with a full service, plates of biscuits, scones and slices of seed cake. Mr. Mornay returned to the room.
“Papa!” shouted Nigel. He pulled himself free from his mother’s embrace and charged at his father like a little bull. Phillip, smiling, received the boy into his arms only to lift him upside down and deposit him upon his shoulders, holding tightly to his little chubby legs. The boy’s papa was wearing his shirt and waistcoat, but no outer garment, for he had anticipated his son’s antics. Ariana settled Miranda once again upon her lap, watching her husband and son with a smile. Nigel’s shrieks of delight were blithely ignored by the baby, who snuggled against her mother.
Phillip glanced over from time to time, but he continued playing with his son, getting on his knees and taking the child about on his back. Ariana watched adoringly. Who would have known—not even she—that Mr. Mornay could be so playful and unrestrained with his offspring? It was beautiful to behold, and at times she wasn’t sure who was having more fun, the child, or the father. However, as soon as Nigel was removed from a room, her husband reverted to his usual, more sedate nature. She still marveled upon it.
The wet-nurse appeared. “I beg your pardon, ma’am,” she said, with a curtsey. The playing on the floor stopped, while Phillip paused to hear what was said.
“’Tis the baby’s feeding time.”
“Oh.” Ariana paused, sorrow flooding her heart suddenly because she could no longer perform that office. But she lifted the child, saying, “Of course; thank you, Mrs. Dennison.”
At that point, as if aware of the sudden separation from her mother, the baby awoke with a shudder, and let out a muffled cry; then, a louder one. Mrs. Dennison took her with a look of urgency and disappeared with the crying child from the room, moving determinedly and with rapid strides.
“My sister is hungry?” asked Nigel.
“That’s right, darling.”
“But, Mamma, you’re ‘sposed to feed her!”
She smiled weakly. “Mamma cannot feed her any longer, but she will be fed, very well, I assure you, by Mrs. Dennison.”
“Do you like my men, Papa?” asked Nigel eagerly.
“I do, sir!” he replied, but he got to his feet, and smoothed down his clothing.
Nigel suddenly remembered that treats were available and dropped the little men like they had the plague and hurried over to the table. Molly helped him fill a small plate with foodstuffs.
Mr. Mornay sat beside his wife. “I have sent word to O’Brien to see me. Your sister is anxious to settle the matter of her future—though I cannot understand why,” he added, only half in jest.
She smiled. “Excellent. And you will now grant the living at Glendover to him?”
“Not the rectorship. But otherwise, yes, he’ll be vicar—if he isn’t so pigeon-headed as to refuse it.”
“Phillip—you are to be brothers, now. You must speak well of him henceforth.” Mr. Mornay made a small sound of irritation in his throat. “Must you remind me?”