Chapter Thirty
“Have you summoned Mr. O’Brien, yet?” Ariana asked Phillip the next morning. He was an early riser but she had caught him just as he would have rung for Fotch. He returned and sat on the bed next to his wife, who added in a droll tone, “To tell him that we have decided his fate? That he must marry a delightful girl, become the vicar at Glendover and reside there, which is finer and more spacious than Warwickdon; that he may hire his own curate for that parish if he chooses—and live happily ever after, I daresay!” She was smiling at her husband. But then a fresh concern occurred to her, creasing her brow.
“What, now?” he asked.
“If you insist upon the wedding on the basis of that small impropriety, Beatrice may never feel that he wholly desired it. He has made no declaration to her.”
He put his head back and frowned at her. “Do not say you are not content with a forced wedding. It is precisely what you hoped for! And we have every right to insist upon it; and, your sister is in love with the man. What could be more propitious?”
“If he proposed to her under no duress from us. So that she may never have cause to doubt him.”
He smiled down at her, amused. “You are quite recovered, are you not? Back to scheming, already.” He pushed a tendril of her hair gently behind her ear.
“Only for the happiness of my dear and cherished sister!”
“And what do you propose I can do for her happiness that I have not already done?”
“We must put them alone together again, so that Mr. O’Brien can speak for himself from his heart.”
He looked doubtful. “Who is to say with all the time alone in the world, he will speak for her?”
“He must! I believe he will!” she said, as if there could be no doubt about it.
“Perhaps you can arrange it,” he said. “I believe I have had my fill of the matter.”
“Very well,” she said. “Only you must give me your word not to interfere.”
“Done.”
“Thank you, darling!” She drew him towards her and wrapped her arms around his neck. “I adore you, Mr. Mornay,” she said, smiling up at him.
He kissed her gently, then kissed her again more urgently.
It turned out that the Mornays were late to join the others for breakfast.
Mr. Barton knew that he would have to act quickly. He went by the vicarage first, and found only Mr. O’Brien there. His guests, the clergyman told him, had returned to Aspindon hours earlier.
“Then I must call there,” he said, with a look that was faintly challenging. He looked O’Brien up and down.
“By all means,” said the cleric. But he had a second thought. “I believe I’ll do the same. I have yet to see Mrs. Mornay since her recovery.” He paused. “I have an equipage—it comes with the vicarage—but Mr. Hargrove took his horses, and I have yet to purchase new ones. Would you mind terribly if I came along with you?”
Mr. Barton did mind; but what could he say?
Beatrice’s happiness at Ariana’s recovery and at no one else falling ill was surpassed by the astonishing revelation that her sister and brother wanted her to marry Mr. O’Brien. It filled her heart with elation just to think upon it. Yet the niggling doubt remained in her mind: What if Mr. O’Brien did not wish to marry her? What if his thoughts were entirely wide of that mark? If Mr. Mornay forced a wedding, would the cleric be made forever unhappy?
She came upon Mr. Mornay in the corridor while she was en route to the drawing room to sit with Ariana, and stopped him.
“Sir, have you written yet to Mr. O’Brien regarding…the topic we spoke of earlier?”
Her delicacy referring to the wedding amused him, but he merely said, “No.”
“May I ask you to hold off, sir, for the smallest time?’
He opened his mouth to tell her he was prepared to do exactly that, but Beatrice hurried on, “Since we have waited this long already, and no harm has come of it—I should like to see if Mr. O’Brien might himself…that is, if he may wish to…” and here her voice fell away.
“I understand you completely,” he said.
“Do you!”
“It was Ariana’s thought exactly. To give him opportunity to declare himself, is that it?”
“Yes, precisely!” she said, relieved.
“It isn’t as if I have to worry about him disappearing over the horizon. He’s staying put. I have no problem giving him an opportunity to speak to you.”
She clasped her hands together. She could almost have given the man a kiss upon the cheek. And then, the next thing she knew, she did! She kissed Mr. Mornay upon the cheek!
“I am obliged to you, sir!” she cried, and then took off down the corridor. She stopped further down, turned and clasping her hands again said, “Much obliged!”
Mornay watched her go with placid eyes and a half-smile. The girl was desperately in love.
Mr. Barton and Mr. O’Brien spoke little during the drive to Aspindon. The first man was thinking that all he needed was a good few minutes alone with Beatrice and he could settle the situation in his favour. All he had to do was persuade Miss Forsythe that she was ready for marriage, and that he was her best hope for the sort of union she desired. He was good at being persuasive, he felt.
Mr. O’Brien had the unmistakable sensation that something was afoot with the man beside him, and was sure he knew—only too well—what it was. Barton had likely made an offer and was en route to find out his fate. Mr. O’Brien had a sinking heart, therefore, and yet he itched to reach the house, to pay his respects to Ariana, and—he hoped—to see Miss Forsythe. It had plagued his mind since he’d seen her last, the words she said. What did she mean by saying his opinion of Barton had been “far too good”? And, what on earth was behind her calling him “the most unfeeling man in the world?”
There was a little voice in his head trying to tell him that it meant she cared for him, Mr. O’Brien. But how could that be? She had made it clear what her expectations were, only too well. He had little to offer her compared to Barton’s wealth—and compare them, she would. He had undoubtedly moved up in the world with the living at Warwickdon; he’d come into his own, but that wouldn’t be good enough for her.
Why, why had his life crossed paths again with the Mornays and with another “Miss Forsythe?” But even as he thought it, he was extremely grateful that it had. He was grateful for the living, of course, but it wasn’t only that. He enjoyed the Mornays, and he especially enjoyed knowing Beatrice. Lately he seemed to think of her all the time. Why—he didn’t just enjoy Miss Forsythe’s company—he longed for it. He dreaded to think of Barton winning her. Suddenly he felt rather tragical about it. Mornay would approve of Barton but never the clergyman.
He was in love and unable to do a blasted thing about it!
During the last few minutes after they had turned into the long, tree-lined drive of the estate, he turned his heart to God and emptied it before Him. Lord, I love her, he said, in his mind. She wants other things than what I can give her. He felt freshly conscious that the situation must be hopeless. But I give my hopes to You, he prayed. You have brought us together as neighbours; I pray that if it is possible, if it is Your will, that You bring us together as man and wife!
There, he had prayed it. He may lack the right to speak to her; or the courage; but he had at last prayed for the thing he desired. He’d tried to suppress such thoughts or hopes, but now it loomed before him as something enormously important: to have Beatrice Forsythe as his wife. It would take a miracle to happen, he thought. But weren’t miracles exactly the sort of thing God specialized in?
He sat back in his seat with a feeling of expectation. The house came into view, and soon they pulled up in front.
Mr. Barton said, “Well, here we are, O’Brien.”
The two rivals surveyed each other. Did Barton know, Mr. O’Brien wondered, that he considered him a contender for Beatrice’s hand? As if reading his thoughts, Barton said, “May the best man win.” He wore a smirk as he spoke, for it was clear he considered himself to be that man.
Mr. O’Brien nodded but said, “God’s will be done.”
At the door to the big house, Mr. Barton straightened his neckcloth and coat, and put his hat at a rakish angle before using the brass knocker. Mr. O’Brien watched and cleared his throat.
When the men were shortly ushered into the drawing room, they found it buzzing with conversation. Mr. Mornay leaned against the mantel, but at their entrance came forward and offered to show Mr. O’Brien to a seat—a decidedly unusual greeting. Mr. O’Brien was pleased—nay, almost amazed—but counted it as deference to him as the new vicar. That is, until his host stopped at a vacant chair beside Beatrice and motioned at it, saying, “Have a seat beside Miss Forsythe, if you would.” He stared at O’Brien with an almost unnerving stare—the clergyman knew not what to make of it.
Watching them, Mr. Barton’s eyes narrowed.
When the host came back to Barton, he asked, “You haven’t come intent upon changing my mind, I hope?”
“Yours, sir?” His eyes roamed to where Miss Forsythe was sitting, needlework in hand, beside Mrs. Mornay. Mr. O’Brien sat in a wing chair at Beatrice’s other side. The young lady was blushing lightly as she conversed with the clergyman.
“I won’t have you speaking to Miss Forsythe regarding a matter which is settled, to my mind.”
Mr. Barton felt feisty; what did he have to lose? “I have the right, do you not think, to hear from her own lips why she has refused my offer?”
Mr. O’Brien’s head spun, for he overheard the words, “my offer.” His heart skipped a beat. Perhaps it skipped a few.
“You have no rights whatsoever when it comes to my family. My word on the matter is all you need—or shall get.” For some reason, it was much easier for Mr. Mornay to be curt in person rather than in writing.
Barton grimaced but said, “Sir—may I ask if you are fully aware of my situation? My fortune?”
“I am, Mr. Barton. Your ability to steward it properly is doubtful; I suspect you are likely to burn through what is left of it as lightly as you parted with your family’s estate not long ago.”
Mr. Barton’s eyes flared. He was shocked that Mornay knew about that. He said, in a clipped voice, “I have seen my mistake in that regard; I know better, now.”
Mr. Mornay turned his head to stare out at the room. “It is neither here nor there; Miss Forsythe is not to be bartered for. As you have now received not only a rejection from her but from me as well, let it suffice you, sir.” He turned and leveled a direct stare at him. “It is my decided opinion you would do best to leave it alone.”
Beatrice was now shooting alarmed looks at the men, for she, too, had overheard snatches of conversation; words like, “rejection,” and “leave it alone.” Conversations slowly died down across the room as the others became aware—first, of tension emanating from the gentleman speaking with Mr. Mornay, and second, that the dialogue was bound to be of the juiciest nature. Mrs. Royleforst told her companion to “hush!” and even Ariana lowered her voice and then turned to watch the men.
“Your opinion? Is that what prevents this connexion?” Mr. Barton said, no longer with a care to keep his voice low; he didn’t mind if Miss Forsythe knew he was willing to spar with the Paragon for a chance at her hand. “Should it not be the young lady’s opinion that matters?” He looked over at Beatrice, who hurriedly averted her eyes. “Or that of her mother?” His eyes turned to settle upon Mrs. Forsythe, who watched and listened (though she felt it was thoroughly poor manners to do so).
This was an indirect threat to Mr. Mornay’s authority. Mr. Barton was prepared to take his case to Mrs. Forsythe. For a moment Mr. Mornay warmed to the idea. Why not let the girl’s mother turn him down? What difference would it make? But his sense of responsibility for his young relation—for she was beneath his roof—overpowered the desire to be done with the affair.
Barton must have seen the resolution upon his host’s face, for he hurriedly added, ‘I understand you completely, sir. But may I be granted the simple honour of paying my respects to the young lady? A parting gesture, if you will?”
Mornay eyed him for a moment. “Be my guest, sir.” Mr. Barton’s eyes momentarily flickered with something—victory? He bowed lightly and turned to the roomful of guests. Many faces watched his. A nursery maid rushed into the room telling Ariana that little Miranda would not cease her crying. This was sufficient to send the concerned mother at once from her seat and out of the room. Barton immediately headed to that vacant spot, roundly refusing to meet the clergyman’s disapproving eye.
“Miss Forsythe—if I may?” he asked, motioning to the vacant seat.
Squirming inwardly, Beatrice nodded; she could hardly do otherwise. “As you wish,” she said. He took the spot recently held by Ariana, acutely aware that the eyes of both Mr. Mornay and Mr. O’Brien were settled upon him—as well as, it seemed, every other occupant of the room. Mrs. Royleforst and her companion regarded him with light suspicion. Mr. and Mrs. Pellham looked on curiously. Mrs. Forsythe eyed him regretfully. In all, not a single eye looked upon him with approval or pleasure—but Mr. Barton was no weak-kneed toad-eater. He would not be cowed, nor made so uncomfortable as to put off his suit that easily.
He waited a few moments while other conversations in the room were taken up again. Then, turning to Beatrice, he said, in a tone so low it could almost be called a whisper, “I beg your pardon, Miss Forsythe, but are you aware that I sent a letter to Mr. Mornay? To offer for your hand in marriage?”
She blushed, and swallowed, and again averted her eyes. “I am, sir.”
“You know then that he has turned my offer down?”
“Yes, I know.” She found her courage and met his eyes. He looked injured; she looked away again, staring at the pattern on the rug as though she needed to commit it to memory.
Still keeping his voice carefully low, so low that even Mr. O’Brien struggled to hear it, he continued, “I had reason to believe that my suit would be acceptable to you, did I not?”
Looking up, she returned, in a near whisper, “You never mentioned offering for me, Mr. Barton.” She was ready to die of mortification, searching her brain for a way to end the horrid conversation. But perhaps it was better to get it over with than to leave any lingering doubt in his mind.
“You cut me to the quick!” he exclaimed, with a hand to his heart. Then, remembering to lower his voice added, “Did I not ask if I might court you? Is that not tantamount to declaring my love?”
She blushed afresh. “I am sorry, sir, truly.”
“Please give me your reasons,” he said. “What have you against me? I beg of you, Miss Forsythe! I cannot mend my ways if I do not know what is displeasing in them.”
She did not want to give him her reasons. But to quiet him, she said, “You walked out when we were to pray for my sister.” She turned her eyes to him.
He thought quickly. “I am a private person, Miss—Beatrice. It does not seem so, I grant; but my public appearance is not the same as the man I know myself to be, intimately. I cannot, like some (he looked briefly at Mr. O’Brien. Who was staring stonily at him. Which he ignored.) pray prettily, or aloud. I can only think to pray when I am alone.”
Despite herself, Beatrice found his answer reasonable. “You have only to practice it,” she replied. “Praying in a group, or even a twosome, is no great difficulty once you have practiced.”
Miss Forsythe—” He instinctively went to grasp one of her hands, but saw movement out of the corner of his eye. Mr. Mornay stood against the wall, arms crossed, watching his every move. He decided against it, returning his hands to his own lap.
“Will you be my tutor? Tell me that you, lovely Beatrice, will teach me to pray aloud, in public, and I will give it practice, with my whole heart.” He had turned to face her, so that his whole person leaned in toward her, and suddenly Mr. Mornay was there, in front of him, and with a stony visage.
“I beg your pardon,” mumbled Barton, resuming his previous position.
Mr. Mornay glanced sideways at Mr. O’Brien with a sour look. The parson could be a deterrent to Barton, if he only put himself forward, he thought.
Mr. O’Brien had dared not interfere, as he mistakenly believed that Barton had their host’s approval for his suit. So he met Mornay’s gaze with puzzlement.
Mr. Barton swallowed his pride. He suddenly felt like a chess piece. He was a mere pawn, but Mornay was king! And though he might make only small moves, they mattered, utterly, to this king.
Beatrice, meanwhile, had remembered more to accuse him with. “When my sister first took ill, you might have put up some of our number at the Manor. You offered no rooms whatsoever! When you have more than you can need or possibly use.” He was taken aback, but again he thought quickly.
“Anne was often ill, you will recall,” he said. “She is better now, but at that time I feared to compromise her health. I knew she would take it upon herself to play hostess and exert herself too much. It might well have prolonged her sickness, rather than allowing her the time and the quiet to recuperate as she has. I think, (I am sorry if it offends you) but I still think I was in the right in that decision.”
Well! This did seem to answer. But she met his gaze and said, “You mentioned nothing of this at the time, sir.”
“Anne would have counted herself ill-used if I had, and insisted on taking all of you home with us. Only then, she would have never been able to get her rest. I am her older brother, and responsible for her.”
She had to acknowledge the truth of that. “I give you my compliments on her marriage, by the way,” she said.
“I thank you,” he answered, watching her intently with his dark black eyes. “I would call myself a happy man, almost—if I could only secure my own happiness in marriage—to you.”
Beatrice felt her hair stand on end. How could he dare to say such things to her right there in the middle of a roomful of people? She blushed afresh, looking helplessly around her, until her gaze fell upon Mr. Mornay’s. He was a wise and good relation, Beatrice felt. And coming to rescue her!
Which he did. With little more than a nod of his head, he had Mr. Barton making his excuses in a minute, and took him away from Beatrice. She let out a breath of relief. In the next minute, Mr. O’Brien sat down in his place. He’d seen Mr. Mornay’s attitude towards Barton and was rather astonished—but not disheartened.
“With your permission,” he said, but he was already seated.
Beatrice could only gape at him, thinking frantically of what she could say or do to show Mr. O’Brien that she did not welcome Mr. Barton’s addresses. She must show him, indeed, that she had not meant any of her earlier foolish statements.
“Has Barton discomposed you, Miss Forsythe?” he asked, as if he knew precisely what sort of conversation had just taken place.
She stared at him with a strange alarm in her eyes, for she was still abashed to find her hero beside her. “I do not wish to speak of that gentleman, if you don’t mind.” What she wanted to speak of was that she did not care a fig about a fine, large house like Aspindon; and she did not want to go to London for a Season; and she did not care—overmuch—about the size of a man’s fortune! Oh, what ought she to reveal to him? It could not be too much of her sentiments for he might not welcome her admiration.
“I beg your pardon,” he said.
“No, it is just that I have nothing good to say of him at this moment.” She hoped that was an explanation. Meanwhile, Mr. Mornay had returned to the room. To her relief, there was no sign of Mr. Barton.
Mr. O’Brien studied her silently for a moment. She had nothing good to say of Mr. Barton? Hope rose in his chest. “Miss Forsythe,” he said, “would you do me the honour of accompanying me for a short walk on the grounds?”
“But there is snow on the ground,” she protested.
He smiled; “I only ask for a few minutes of your time. I promise not to keep you out long enough to develop frostbite or suffer the cold.”
Beatrice nodded. “Very well. I shall be happy to.” She wondered why at this particular moment he should ask her to accompany him outside? She felt it must be something very, very good or else something very, very bad. Having little hope that it could be something very, very, good, she left the room with a troubled look. On the way, she heard Mr. Mornay ask Mr. O’Brien what their destination was. He kept a weather eye upon her! She went to get her coat and bonnet.
Mr. Mornay spoke to Mr. O’Brien for another few minutes. O’Brien thanked him warmly—effusively—and then went off for his own great coat and muffler and hat. Mornay peered at his watch fob. It was going on four-thirty.
At the front door, Mr. O’Brien turned to Beatrice. His normally sober countenance seemed to be alight of a sudden. “May I ask you to wait here for just a few minutes? I have taken the liberty of accepting the use of a sleigh that Mr. Mornay has been good enough to offer us. Do you mind? I’ll only be a minute.”
Beatrice smiled. “I love a sleigh ride!”
She waited a few minutes, and then stepped out of doors to wait upon the steps. The light from the transom window was just becoming necessary to see, for the winter day was drawing to a close. There was no moon, and snow fell lightly. A moonlit night might have been better for a romantic sleigh ride, Beatrice thought, but the idea of taking a sleigh ride at all—and with Mr. O’Brien beside her!—had her heart thumping, for it was romantic enough. She hoped.
A sound from the deepening gloom made her lean forward, expecting to see the sleigh coming toward her. She saw nothing.
“Miss Forsythe.” She gasped in surprise, but it was only Mr. Barton.
“I beg your pardon,” he said. “For frightening you.”
“My word!” she exclaimed. “You did frighten me. Where did you come from?”
He pointed down the drive, saying, “My carriage is only just over there.” She could not make it out due to the snow and falling dark, but she looked at him curiously.
“Are you returning to the house?” she asked.
“I was,” he said slowly, watching her. “Are you leaving it?” he asked, with a smile.
“Only for a few minutes. Just going for a sleigh ride with Mr. O’Brien.”
“Ah. The favoured gentleman, if I am not mistaken?” He looked around. “And where is he?”
“He is fetching the sleigh.”
Mr. Barton took in a breath. “Is there any way I can hope to change your mind regarding my suit?” he asked, suddenly.
Beatrice wished he had not raised that subject! Uneasily, she replied, “I am sorry, sir, but there is not.”
“May I know why?” His tone was clipped.
“If you must know”—and for some reason, what she could not say to Mr. Mornay tripped easily off her tongue, now—“’tis because I find that I love—Mr. O’Brien.”
Mr. Barton said nothing, merely rocked on his heels a moment or two, looking out at the falling snow in the direction of his carriage.
“I am of a mind to take you for a drive myself,” he said, lightly.
She looked at him, perplexed. “I am sorry, Mr. Barton, but as I said, I am waiting for Mr. O’Brien to return at any moment.”
“The least you can grant me is a short drive,” he said rather bitterly, “since you deny me a lifetime with you.”
“That is the best reason not to grant it,” she said. Feeling a sudden sense of caution, she turned to grasp the door handle. She would wait inside the house and put an end to this pointless discussion. But as soon as she turned, Mr. Barton took her about the middle and had her over his shoulder like a sack of flour—just like that!
“Mr. Barton!” she cried, so amazed she hardly knew what to do. She tried pounding him with her fists, but had to drop her muff, first. “Put me down this instant, sir!” She beat against his coat, but he scarcely paid heed. He hurried forward carrying her, counting on the snowfall to muffle her cries. Beatrice began yelling the name of Mr. O’Brien, and then, in desperation, “Peter!”