Chapter Six
“A note, sir, by special messenger from Warwickdon.”
Freddie handed the missive to his master, who seemed surprised to be receiving a second letter by special messenger in two days. He opened it in the parlour, letting Ariana read it with him, for they were seated side by side. Mrs. Royleforst’s small eyes opened as wide as they were capable of while she waited, hoping to hear the contents.
Mr. Mornay’s brows rose while he read, and he and Ariana shared a look of surprise. “Upon my word!” she exclaimed.
Mr. Mornay looked at his aunt and explained, “Mr. Epworth, the magistrate at Warwickdon, tells us that our neighbouring parish is going vacant of its rector, and a replacement is needed directly. Mr. Hargrove is above anxious to take up a living in his town of birth in Yorkshire. He is the rector of the parish, you see.”
Ariana exclaimed, “We knew he planned on leaving, but thought he had a replacement secure. It seems that arrangement has fallen through. Did you ever hear of such a thing? A rector looking for a clergyman just when we have got us one!” She smiled up at her husband and added, “If Mr. O’Brien takes Warwickdon and we grant him Glendover as well, that will put him in a splendid way to afford a wife and family; and he could hire his own curate for Warwickdon.”
Mr. Mornay held up one hand. “You run ahead of yourself. I am perfectly happy to recommend O’Brien for Warwickdon, despite the fact that it means our endless pest shall be a mere three miles away at all times. But keeping him on my own property is another thing entirely.” When she frowned, he added, “You should welcome this news as a means of satisfying your hopes of doing him some good; he will be a vicar, now, have use of the glebe, a comfortable vicarage, and the lesser tithes.”
“It is rather extraordinary,” put in Mrs. Royleforst. “That two neighbouring parishes should fall vacant simultaneously!”
Mr. Mornay scanned the letter again. “And that Mr. Hargrove is anxious to leave his situation as soon as possible. He says he has had a ‘flood of requests to perform baptisms, a few weddings, and a funeral appears imminent’—if he can make the move quickly enough. Furthermore, his parish in the north is so happy of his returning that they are arranging a day of village festivities to proclaim his arrival.” He looked up. “They want him directly.”
“I daresay he could simply hire a curate to officiate for him, but he must be enormously pleased at such eager parishioners,” Mrs. Royleforst said, shifting in her seat upon the sofa.
“Mr. O’Brien’s coming is providential,” exclaimed Ariana. Turning to her husband she added, “though you are not willing to grant him Glendover, God has provided for him, nevertheless.”
“Indeed, He has,” concurred Phillip. In fact, he was grateful for this unexpected boon. The timing of it was superb. Now he could refer the man for an excellent situation without having to face the slightest reproof from his wife for not offering him his own parish. It was an act of Providence.
Mrs. Royleforst was closer to the mark than she could have known. Mr. Hargrove was more than enormously pleased at the thought of the enthusiastic reception awaiting him in the north—he was ecstatic. Suddenly the spacious parsonage at Warwickdon and all the accompanying comforts of the parsonage was a millstone around his neck. He wanted a vicar to fill his shoes—now.
Perhaps it was a divine intervention that Mr. Hargrove, in his haste, applied to the Ordinary of the parish to find him a man. And that the Ordinary had inquired of Aspindon House—Mr. Mornay, that is—for a suitable applicant. Mr. Hargrove’s conscience was sufficiently intact that he did not wish to abandon his current flock without ensuring that services would continue; but he wanted a good man, one who could do more than ride in upon a horse each week, say his service, and ride off again to the next parish. Though he would retain the rectorship, he disliked pluralism and circuit riders. And he had no time to interview numerous candidates. The Ordinary remembered that Mr. Mornay was considering a list of candidates for his own parish at that very time, and felt surely this was his answer.
The question was, did Mornay have a suitable candidate? A man who was worthy and true in his religion? And most important to Mr. Hargrove: one who could come directly?
Sitting across the room from Aunt Royleforst and her companion, Ariana entwined her arm within her husband’s. With no one else about, she saw no reason not to press a point with him. “Phillip, are you certain Mr. Hargrove is not seeking merely a curate? You know as well as I do, a curate’s salary is bound to be a pittance.”
“If our clergyman is acceptable to Mr. Hargrove and the bishop, he will shortly be vicar with the lesser tithes, I assure you.”
But still she frowned. “When we have Glendover available, it does appear to be a slight to him.”
A look of resoluteness fell upon his handsome face. “We are doing him a great service; he will get the situation based on my word, you know that. It is far superior to St. Pancras; he will welcome it, I assure you. And as for feeling slighted, the man can hardly expect me to love him so well that I should want him in my life perpetually. ‘Tis hard enough that I must suffer to keep him within three miles of us. You must see the unreasonable nature of your hopes.”
“I understand your feelings upon this.” Ariana absently placed a hand upon his chest, smoothing down nonexistent wrinkles in his fine waistcoat. “But here is the reason for my hopes: he and Beatrice may find they suit one another.” She could not help but smile. “I did not want to speak of this too soon, but I do think you must hold in mind that if he and Beatrice were to…become better acquainted, you may have the opportunity to benefit your own family by presenting him with Glendover.” She hoped to find him amused but instead he grew impatient.
“They have just met.”
“No, she knew him in London. Do you not recall her promise to marry him?” She looked amused. But Mr. Mornay looked thunderstruck. “What? Are you telling me they are betrothed?”
Ariana lost a degree of optimism at this reaction, admitting, “Well, no; he did not offer for her; Beatrice felt sorry for him for losing me to you, so she offered for him!”
He let out a breath of relief. “That’s absurd. It isn’t done.”
“I know, but it happened. It may mean something, yet.”
He was quiet for a moment, thinking. “This changes nothing. I have said I shall give the man until Sunday to prove his worth—and I shall; but he won’t do it. And I have no intention of holding the benefice until a romance may bud between two people.”
“Beatrice has no interest more upon her thoughts these days than finding a husband; she has said so.”
“It was my understanding,” he replied speedily, “that she desires a wealthy man; a man about town; not a country parson.”
“Well, that is nothing!” said Ariana, wide-eyed. “She will change her mind if she falls in love.”
“If she falls in love?” he asked, dubiously. “I cannot conceive that I am having this conversation!” He kissed her on the forehead. “I must see to this business. I’ll go to my study directly; send O’Brien to me, will you?”
Ariana frowned, but said, “Very well.”
He started to move off but noted her expression, and took her hands in his. He was wearing a “patient’ look and Ariana steeled herself for a mild combing.
“Have you forgotten his disregard for our betrothal? For your expressed wishes? After you’d refused him more than once, he had the audacity to take advantage of you! Do you think I could ever willingly bring him so much into our lives?”
“I am beyond remembering that at all!” she replied, heatedly. Remembering they were not alone, she lowered her voice and continued, “Why can you not do as I have done?”
“A man does not forget an offence involving the woman he loves.” He paused and moved a stray curl off her face. In a softer tone, he asked, “Have you truly forgot how he lost his head, his manners, his honour—when he dragged you into his arms in his house that day?” She watched him with a silence that was born not of ease or agreement, but of disturbance. He had never spoken of that day since their marriage; how could it still be so engraved upon his heart that he could recite it like a favourite poem, memorized and cherished? She turned away from his eyes, though there was not overmuch of reproof in them. It was more like injury.
“Can you allow that he is a changed man, now?” Her voice was quiet.
“He has done some growing up, I grant you. But the man is still untested, in my opinion. I do not wish to consider whether he shall stop to visit you on occasion; or whether I should arrive home to find him present. His own past behavior has merited my disapproval.”
“Mr. O’Brien did behave badly, but he sent me—he sent us an apology. And he has matured since then. His youthful passion is behind him.”
She met his eyes, upon which he said, “Waiting only for the right time to sprout up again, like a dormant seed in winter.”
With a glance at Aunt Royleforst, who was dozing where she sat, he dropped her hands and pulled her up against him. Miss Bluford, who was not dozing, saw this action and looked vastly amazed; but when Phillip’s eye fell upon her, she settled upon her knitting with fierce attention.
He took her face in his hands. “You are more beautiful than ever,” he said, to his wife.
“Only to you, sir!” Ariana chuckled.
“Not at all.” He dropped his arms and circled her waist, drawing her again into a close embrace. “Motherhood—and being twenty-four—has agreed with you more than any lady of my acquaintance. He will fall right back in love with you, I assure you. It is his nature.”
“You forget that Beatrice is here, now. And I am a mother; a matronly dame to a single man.”
He had to laugh. “A matronly dame? Not you.” He planted a kiss upon her face.
She admitted, “Perhaps I was too friendly toward him. In the past, I mean. I will not make that mistake again.”
He paused; “Let us have no more discussion of the matter. I hoped for us to be of one mind in this. You must say nothing to give him hopes of Glendover. Mr. O’Brien may accept as many benefices as he is offered; only anywhere else in England than on my lands.”
She looked thoughtful a moment. “Perhaps, then—it would be kind in you if he were to be given one of the advowsons you own in the north or south; he could profit from the salary while living at Warwickdon.”
He took a breath. “You plead his case strongly. Your interest in his welfare only strengthens my resolve.”
“Oh, do not say so! You cannot mean you are jealous of him?”
He paused; “All you do is support him! You wish to grant him a living on our property. Does this not keep him near you?”
“Phillip! My only design is to encourage a match between him and Beatrice! How could you even think—” She lowered her voice again. “I am astounded at you!”
“And I am disappointed in you.”
Ariana’s eyes watered. Her husband had never before said such a thing to her. But she pushed away the sense of injury, bit her lip and said, in a small voice, “The parish has stood vacant for two months, now. The people need and deserve a parson. When will the position be filled?”
“When I’ve found the right man. I’m still settled upon retaining the rectorship in case we have another son.” He lifted her chin and kissed her lightly on the mouth. “Not all men wish to join the army or navy, you know.” He studied her face. “Do not be out of countenance. I am about to do the man a service. He will be greatly encouraged.”
“I hope you are right in that,” she said with resignation.
In one of the cottages belonging to Aspindon, a home of an agricultural worker and his family, the mother of the household was bent worriedly over the still form of her sleeping eldest child, a girl named MaryAnn. The hinged door flew open and the father walked in with a blast of cold air. He stamped his feet loudly and moved quickly toward the fire. He rubbed his hands and held them out over the coals. “It’s taken a nasty turn out there,” he said, turning his hands to warm them evenly.
“She’s still sick, Giles.”
He made no answer, didn’t flinch, and finished warming his hands before turning to look toward where the child lay on a makeshift bed. He walked over and peered down at the girl. She was red with fever, and her blond hair clung to her face and head in wet wisps. Beads of perspiration were on her skin. “I don’ like it,” said the mother, a woman not much older than her landlady, Mrs. Mornay. She curled her hands beneath her chin, worrying. “I think we should call the ‘pothecary! She’s been like this for more’n two days, now!”
The man looked at his wife a moment, thinking. “C’mon, now, Mary; we agreed on this. We can’t do that. If word gets out, I’ll be taken off the work; we can’t afford that. Not in winter!”
“Why would ye be? It’s not you that’s sick!”
“You know how it is! With this fever goin’ round, if Mr. Horton gets a whiff o’ this girl bein’ ill, I’ll be chopped off the work like that! They’re right afraid that somethin’ awful will ‘appen to the little master, or the new lit’le laidy at the big house.”
“But we’er not sending ‘er to work! If ye don’ go see Mr. Price, she might die, Giles! Can ye live wi’ that?” The mother’s tortured eyes pleaded with her husband, twice their normal size. She grasped his arm tightly with one hand, for he had made a move to turn away.
“I’ll ask ye again. Can ye live wi’ that?” When he made no answer, she said, “Look at ‘er! Look at ‘er! She’s your daaauughter!” He pulled his arm loose and turned his back, but he was thinking hard. He went to the nearest window and looked out sullenly. Then he slowly circled the room, still considering what to do. He came back and stood, looking down at the sick girl.
“I’ll see what’s to be done,” he said, in a gruff, low tone, and replaced his cap and left the cottage. His demeanor was grim.
Frowning, his wife watched him go. She turned back to gaze upon the still form of her daughter, and then went and checked on her other offspring, two young boys, who were both soundly asleep. She felt their foreheads and necks; no fever. That was a mercy, at least.
Beatrice, Mrs. Forsythe, and Mr. O’Brien spent a pleasant hour despite the cold, sight-seeing on the grounds that flanked the house. Mr. O’Brien was courteous and entertaining, and had offered an arm to each lady, so that they flanked him on either side.
When they reached the mouth of the maze, Beatrice refused to enter, and had to confess she had a fright of mazes. She had heard a lady telling once of a terrible misadventure which occurred when she had gone into a maze and got lost for nearly an hour. It had started to grow dark and by the time she made her way back out, she had been ready to swoon. It took her two days to recover her composure.
Beatrice took the tale as a warning. Mr. O’Brien was most understanding, and moved them on.
“I believe my daughter means to remove the maze,” said Mrs. Forsythe. “No one goes in it any longer, for Nigel once ran ahead of Mrs. Perler and that poor woman nearly had an apoplexy! It took her fifteen minutes to find the child, you see, who kept running ahead, and would not give an answer or make a sound, as he thought it a game. I daresay she felt just like the woman you told us of,” she added.
They continued on, for it was a clear day, giving much to admire even in winter. “How long do you expect to be staying with us, sir?” inquired Mrs. Forsythe.
Mr. O’Brien met her gaze with a little smile. “I am unable to answer that question, ma’am, as I hardly expected to be here this long.”
“Sir?” she asked, smiling in return. “Can you explain yourself?”
“Well,” he said, “as you know, I am come on account of a recommendation from Colonel Sotheby.”
“Yes; so what is your surprise at still being here?”
“I assumed, based on my past experiences with Mr. Mornay, that he would make quick work of sending me back to London, ma’am.”
“On what account?” asked Beatrice. As soon as she asked, she suddenly remembered how Mr. O’Brien had tried to put himself forward at Ariana’s wedding when Mr. Mornay was late. It turned out that he had been shot in the arm the night before, which caused his tardiness; but Mr. O’Brien had not endeared himself to anyone by making a last, though hopeless, attempt at marrying Ariana.
“I believe, if you must know, it was my ill-advised infatuation for your sister.”
He had been honest and non-evasive, and Mrs. Forsythe was determined to be pleased with him in any case, so she said, heartily, “I understand, sir! Now you mention it, I recall some such thing; but there is no need for us to dwell upon the past. We are all aware, I am sure, of how much we learn as we grow older; and how much we regret our youthful blunders.”
Beatrice was pleased to include herself in this assessment of learning more and growing older and regretting youthful blunders as though they were assuredly behind her, so she said, “Amen to that!” She was sorely tempted just then to raise the subject of her own “youthful blunder” when she had promised to marry Mr. O’Brien. If she did, particularly in the context of putting these things in the past, it would relieve her of the constant worry that the curate would speak of it. But she fell to thinking about it, and wondering how to begin, and the moment was lost.
Mr. O’Brien, for his part, was both pleased and surprised by their good will, and chuckled to himself at Beatrice’s response. As they rounded the last bend of the house which would lead them back to the front, she turned a curious eye to him, peeking up from within her bonnet. Her large green eyes made a pleasing contrast to the buff-coloured velvety hat she sported, with a ribbon bow beneath her chin. Her muffler flapped behind her, and small russet curls framed her face. Mr. O’Brien thought that she looked lovely, indeed; but a major portion of his brain warned him against noticing her at all. She was a Forsythe. He would never make a cake of himself by admiring another Forsythe girl. It was utterly unthinkable. Particularly as he was waiting upon Mr. Mornay to determine his fate, as it were.
If God were to grant him the vicarage at Glendover—! But no, he shouldn’t even think of it. It was not going to happen. He saw it in every look of his host.
In fact, it was a mystery why Mr. Mornay had not yet thrown him out on his ears. All he could think was that Mrs. Mornay had spoken for him. After insisting he stay to sup with them, she had urged him to take a guest bedchamber in the house, so that he found himself now a guest of the Mornays. He had no idea when the gavel would be dropped; when Mr. Mornay would impart the dreaded news and make him leave. He had come prepared for that, but each delay of the business somehow upped the stakes for him. This was why he had requested the meeting with Mornay; to have it done with. Better to face the worst than to keep anticipating it.
In the meantime he must not allow himself to hope, but must concentrate on behaving as a good curate should. Perhaps he could make amends in some way for his past transgressions. He’d return home then, in the knowledge that this event had occurred for a worthy cause. If nothing else, he would be at peace with the Mornays.
It would be an unexpected boon. He suddenly realized that he should like very much to be on good terms with the couple—even Mornay.
When Giles Taller reached the apothecary’s, he hesitated a few moments, looked around warily, and then entered the shop. Another man was at the counter talking to the clerk and he settled himself to wait, standing with his arms crossed and his head bent as though lost in his own thoughts. But he was listening, and couldn’t help hearing the conversation.
“Ay, that’s right; if this don’t work to bring that fever down, all ye can do is wait. There’s a nasty strain goin’ round over in Warmley. Some say it came from London. Warmley got it a fortnight since, and so far three ‘as died. I don’t right know wha’ it is, until I see someone ‘as got it. But this ‘ere’s the best I can do for ye; if’n your lit’le one don’t improve afore mornin’, best call Mr. Speckman.”
The man paid for the mixture, handed to him in a glass vial. When the apothecary went to put the money away in a back room, Giles slunk back out of the shop and started for home. He couldn’t risk letting it be known that his little girl had a sickness that might be the very one which had already left three dead. He could lose his situation. If he was forced to stop working on the Mornay lands, he’d be looking for different employment for weeks. His family needed his small income to survive. No, he couldn’t risk buying the medicine, whatever it had been.