Chapter Eight
That evening, though Mrs. Forsythe was as pleased with her richly appointed bedchamber as anyone used to plainer living would be, she could not sleep. She needed to speak to Ariana. Earlier, with Mr. Barton and Mr. O’Brien in the company, and then the addition of the children to the room, followed by dinner, she had found no chance to raise the subject that weighed heavily upon her mind.
Lighting a small taper, she wrapped herself in a robe and put on slippers. She left the room, shutting the door behind her as quietly as possible. She stopped to peer down the dark corridor, lit only by a few lonely sconces along the walls at far intervals. She could not disturb Ariana at this hour, for it must have been the middle of the night, but somehow the thought of walking the corridor appealed to her. She detested tossing in her bed when sleep evaded her.
Hearing a sound, she held up her candle, and peering into the darkness beyond, saw the shadow of a figure. “Who’s there?” she asked.
“Mamma?” It was Ariana’s voice, coming from far down the corridor.
“Yes! So it is you! I’m glad! I wished to speak to you!”
“Now?” As Ariana came out of the darkness, a little candle in her hand flickering with the house breezes, she said, “Are you unwell?”
“I am fine, I assure you, only I could not sleep for want of speaking to you.” She stopped to appreciate how fetching her daughter looked in an embroidered robe over a nightdress that sported a deal of lace at the throat and sleeves, and a frilly night cap.
“What is it, Mamma?”
“How is it that you are come out of your room?” her mother asked, first. “Are you unwell?”
“I often take a look at the children if I awake during the night, if you must know. I adore watching them as they dream. Will you come with me?” Ariana had been moving them along as she spoke, for she was indeed eager to lay eyes on her offspring.
Mrs. Forsythe smiled, even as she scurried to keep up. “You are enjoying motherhood, I am glad of that.”
“Did not you enjoy it?” she asked, surprised.
“I did, you know it is so; I still do. Of course the station does come with many cares attendant. In fact, it is my other daughter who supplies my errand, tonight. I must speak to you of Beatrice.”
“Of course, Mamma,” Ariana agreed. “Let us just peek at the children first.”
As they walked, Mrs. Forsythe said, “Actually, there are two things, my dear.” They spoke in hushed tones, as if their voices must not reach beyond the dim glow of the candles. Mrs. Forsythe shivered; the floor was carpeted at intervals, but the air was not warm. “As you know,” she said, “Beatrice hopes you will sponsor her for the Season this year.”
“Do you object to it so much, Mamma?”
“She is but seventeen, and my opinion is that she needs must wait. Another year or two will only add to her charms—and her sense.”
Ariana grew thoughtful a moment. “Beatrice is rather sensible for a girl so young, do you not think so?”
“Not in this matter, my dear. She thinks she is entitled to a high match because of your success.”
“I know,” Ariana stifled a chuckle. “Well, it is true that I can help her in ways that I could not have, if it were not for my marriage.”
“Yes, but even so, she is not well-heeled in point of fact; She has no more dowry than you did, and I daresay there are few Mr. Mornays about who will fall head over heels in love with a poor girl!”
“Yes, I will speak to her and set her straight, Mamma, I assure you.” They had reached the nursery, and Ariana put a finger to her lips, while hesitating, listening, outside the door. She slowly opened it with a creak that could not be helped. The first sound they heard when they entered was the snoring of Mrs. Perler, who slept in a bed in a small connecting room to the right.
Ariana held her candle higher and went first toward the crib. Upon reaching it, she smiled down at the sight of the infant on her stomach, her little round face to one side so that one small cheek lay against the sheet. As if aware of her mother’s presence, the baby stirred, and then moved again, instantly beginning to fuss.
Far from being disturbed by this, Ariana smiled and put down her candle, quickly taking the child in her arms. While she quieted the baby, she joined her mother who was looking down at Nigel. The four-year-old was fast asleep, his legs and arms sprawled outwards, and no blanket upon him at all. Mrs. Forsythe replaced the blanket, tucking it snugly up to his neck.
“They are beautiful children,” Ariana’s Mamma murmured, smiling.
Ariana said, “How could they fail to be, with such a handsome father?” She moved toward a chair, and sitting down, said, “I will feed Miranda until she falls asleep again, and she will, you know. She always does.”
Mrs. Forsythe watched her a moment and then said, “Your nightdress is made for nursing a child! How propitious! They did not have such allowances in my day!”
The young mother said, while putting the infant to her breast, “Yes; Mr. Mornay bespoke my “mothering” clothes, as he calls them. He is so thoughtful!”
“Some men do not like their wives to nurse children.”
“He is happy to let me,” she replied. “He knows I prefer to.” After a moment’s silence, she added, “He did make me wean Nigel to a wet nurse, on account of my fatigue. The boy was waking up hungry every two hours and I must confess; it was wearing on me rather alarmingly. But I do enjoy nursing my babies.” And here she looked down to marvel at her little daughter who was sucking away contentedly. It took only a few minutes, and then she switched sides for the baby, but also had to keep giving her little pinches on her cheek, for now the child was falling asleep instead of completing her meal. Soon Mrs. Forsythe went and awoke Mrs. Perler who took the infant sleepily into her arms. “I’ll put dry garments on her, ma’am,” she said, amidst a yawn.
“Thank you, Mrs. Perler,” Ariana replied. When they’d left the nursery, she said, returning to their earlier conversation, “So, you desire me to discourage Beatrice from having a Season this year?“
“Yes. I prefer she waits a year or two.”
“But I have decided I must go myself, after your visit is ended. I need to know how I may get involved in some of the charities we support. I am afraid Mr. O’Brien’s descriptions of St. Pancras should haunt me, otherwise.” She paused. “I would like to bring Beatrice to Grosvenor Square with me. It won’t be for a whole Season, and I will require her to accompany me on my charitable missions. Will that suit you?”
When her mother only frowned, Ariana said, “Mamma, many girls do come-out at her age.”
“Those girls are not my daughters. However, with your promise not to give her all frivolity and nonsense, I will allow her to accompany you.”
“Excellent,” said Ariana. “I think you are right in it.”
“Now, the other matter,” the older woman said, looking at Ariana plaintively, “is dear Mr. O’Brien. Can you prevail upon your husband to grant him the living here? He seems like such a deserving young man, and so good of heart! If you must know, I do hope to encourage your sister to…er… acknowledge his good character—”
Ariana had been suppressing her glee. “Mamma! I have had the very same thought! But to find you a match-maker! It is too amusing!”
“If he were to get both benefices, of Glendover as well as Warwickdon,” the older woman continued, “he would be as respectable a gentleman as anyone could desire—even Beatrice. And better than many, for we know already that Mr. O’Brien has a true religion.”
Ariana fell to silent musing for a moment. “I agree, but Mamma, he will not get either benefice except as a vicar; Mr. Hargrove is the rector over there, and Phillip will hold the rectorship of Glendover in case we have a second son. Mr. O’Brien will be welcomed among the gentry as a gentleman when he is vicar of Warwickdon; but I must tell you, I cannot press my husband in this matter of Glendover. Not any more, for I have already tried.”
They were back near Mrs. Forsythe’s guest bedchamber and so the two stopped.
“My dear. I have seen how he defers to you; he adores you. Why cannot you say a good thing in the curate’s favour? I fail to see—”
“Mamma, things that happened in London—concerning myself and Mr. O’Brien—predisposes my husband against him.”
“Things in London between the two of you?” Mrs. Forsythe’s tone revealed a note of anxiety. In fact, she forgot to keep her voice down, and this time Ariana held up her candle and peered into the darkness of the corridor for a moment. She saw nothing.
“Have I been mistaken in his character? Is he dishonourable?”
“No, ’twas nothing of great significance; but something a husband would dislike. I cannot dare say another word, for he already feels I support Mr. O’Brien too well.”
Mrs. Forsythe fretted, “I have no desire to plant disharmony between you and your husband, my dear. But if Mr. O’Brien had the living, and his future wife your sister, the whole family will benefit.”
“I know it,” the other said, unhappily, as though her sister was already betrothed to the curate.
“I must encourage you to apply once more to Mr. Mornay. He has a great deal of sense regarding such things, and he knows that to keep these things in the family is always preferable to bringing in a stranger.”
“The thing is, there is nothing at present to suggest that anything will spring up between Beatrice and Mr. O’Brien. And now with Mr. Barton…”
“That is precisely why I could not sleep!” cried her mother. “Mr. Barton!”
“But he seems a gentleman, and if there is anything of ill-repute about him, my husband will learn of it.”
“I do not wish to speak against a gentleman without cause; but I am convinced,” (and here she stopped to search her feelings and thoughts) “that Mr. O’Brien is the superior man, fortune or no fortune. And your husband seems to be of the same mind, for you saw how he raked Mr. Barton over the coals.” She looked earnestly at her daughter. “I am of the decided opinion that a match between Mr. O’Brien and Beatrice would be desirable all around. And I do not call it a coincidence that the two of them are here at the same time.”
“But Mr. Barton is too,” returned the younger woman. “How do you discount that?”
Mrs. Forsythe looked lovingly at her daughter, so grown up now that she was more like a friend than her child. “My dear; wherever there is to be a move of God in a life, does not the evil one try and fill the place for it with a lesser substitute? Have you never noticed? He tries to get our eyes to see something other than what is best for us, as though it must be best; when in fact it is but a shadow of the better thing the Lord has for us.” She stopped and searched her daughter’s face, holding up her candle.
“Mr. O’Brien is that good thing for Beatrice!” she exclaimed. “And Mr. Barton is the shallow substitute. And he is turning her head, I daresay!” She paused and continued, “If Beatrice sees Mr. Barton as the answer for all her hopes—and fails to wait for that which is better to show itself—I dare not even think of her sorrow, later.”
“But you and papa can withhold your approval from the man.”
“As indeed we shall!” she said, in a loud whisper. “But I pray it does not come to that.”
“Mamma—nothing has happened between Beatrice and Mr. Barton. Do not borrow trouble. Did you not always say that to me?”
Her mother saw that she had not convinced her daughter of the dangers of Mr. Barton. “Pray for your sister!” she said, turning to open the door to her bedchamber. “And speak to Mr. Mornay if you have the courage!”
Ariana was left in the hallway, and she bit her lip with worry. She went to her own bedchamber, blew out the candle and snuggled against her husband beneath the covers. But she didn’t expect to sleep. Her mother had thoroughly transferred her worries onto her! She remained awake a good while, her mind filling with ideas and imaginations, what-ifs and if-onlys. How would Phillip react if she raised the subject again with him? If Mr. O’Brien were to show an interest in Beatrice, surely her husband must lose the slightest remaining vestige of jealousy. Jealousy? No, it wasn’t that exactly; more like pique.
Suddenly she remembered that at one time Beatrice had promised to marry the curate. Did Mr. O’Brien recall her doing so? If only they should turn out agreeable to one another! How comfortably things could be settled for everyone, then. With a prayer on her heart for it to happen thus, sleep came at last.
Mrs. Betsey Taller awoke from a short sleep when her head made contact with the wall. She’d been sitting by the fire, keeping it hot for her daughter, who still lay unconscious on the bed. Her two boys, to her horror, had started whimpering the night before, and they too, now lay abed hot with fever. MaryAnn had been sick for three—or was it four days now? But today had begun moaning and coughing in her sleep. Instead of the quiet exhaustion she had displayed earlier, she was restless, tossing and turning, and it was driving Mrs. Taller mad!
Giles had not brought any physic to give the girl. She was sure the ‘pothecary must have something to offer. Anything he gave would be administered at once. If only Giles had done his duty and brought it home!
She reached over and wrung out a cloth, and for the thousandth time placed it upon the girl’s forehead. Then she did the same for the boys, changing their old cloths for new ones. When she returned to her daughter, she noticed that MaryAnn was suddenly still….ominously still. With a terrible gasp she fell upon her, and was prepared to wail to high heaven, but she felt some movement of the chest. It was shallow, but MaryAnn was breathing. When she sat up again, she reached a sudden decision. The scare had brought her to her senses, no matter what Giles said. He was wrong to try and hide the fact of their daughter’s illness. It wasn’t honest, and no good could come of it.
She put her hands along the side of the perspiring face of her child and gazed forlornly at the girl. Then she rose and pulled a shawl around her shoulders. On an impulse, she pulled down a beautiful lined bonnet, which had been given to her by the lady of the big house—Mrs. Mornay. It was her most prized possession. She had no money, but perchance the ‘pothecary would accept it instead.
She took one last long look at her daughter and the boys—all three were unconscious from the illness—and then slipped out the front door. She could walk to the ’pothecary’s. It would take near an hour, but she would do it. Then another hour, back. Her daughter’s condition had stayed the same until today, when it was suddenly worse. It only made sense that the boys would follow the same pattern. She could not wait. She would have to risk leaving them all alone and go now, while Giles was still out.
It was Peter O’Brien’s third morning at Aspindon, and he was determined to get the attention of his host for the matter of the living. He meant to speak to him at breakfast, but was disappointed to learn from a footman that the master had already taken his morning meal.
Did the man know where Mr. O’Brien might find him? Before he could answer, Frederick came up the corridor and asked him, “Are you quite done with your breakfast, sir?
Mr. O’Brien eyed the butler with surprise. “I am.”
“Would you be so good, then, sir, to join Mr. Mornay in his study?”
Peter stared at the butler, first in surprise, and then relief. “I should be delighted to join Mr. Mornay in his study,” he replied.
Freddy swiveled his eyes upon the young man, blinking in surprise. “Very good, sir.”
Mr. Mornay sat behind his large mahogany desk, from where he motioned Mr. O’Brien to a chair. Peter had tried not to gawk on the way to the study, but the more he saw of the house, the more awed he felt. He even began to think that he could better understand his host now, simply for seeing his home with his own eyes. It must engender a certain amount of pride to be brought up in such magnificence, he thought. Not that he was ready to excuse arrogance, but a proper familial pride was perfectly understandable.
Upon the desk was a stack of books, one of which was a large Bible. There were two framed pictures, though Mr. O’Brien could not see the portraits they contained; a small sand pot, for blotting letters; an ink well; a quill holder, and a compass. There was more, and Mr. O’Brien would have liked to catalogue every item in the room suddenly, but he took a breath as Mr. Mornay put his hands together upon the desktop and looked at him squarely.
It was time. Here was the announcement he dreaded and yet knew must come. Mr. O’Brien would not be found suitable for Glendover, and somehow Mr. Mornay had wished to keep him waiting this long to hear it. He cleared his throat, and met the man’s gaze head on. So be it. Mr. O’Brien was unafraid.