The Country House Courtship (12 page)

“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 clerk 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 in a nearby town. 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; he knew it. His family needed his small income to survive. No, he couldn't risk buying the medicine, whatever it had been.

M
r. Mornay was not yet to have the pleasure of telling Mr. O'Brien the felicitous news regarding the living at Warwickdon. Instead, he was notified that a caller had arrived, a gentleman named Mr. Tristan Barton. His wife asked if he would receive the man, as she did not recognize the name when Frederick announced it to her.

On the way to the entrance hall to meet him, Mr. Mornay tried to determine if the name, which seemed to faintly ring a bell, was identifiably familiar. He drew a blank.

When they had come around from the east side of the house, Beatrice exclaimed, “Look, someone's carriage is here!”

“It no doubt belongs to the Mornays,” murmured Mrs. Forsythe.

“I wonder,” she replied. At that moment, a groom was just leading the horses and equipage away from the front of the house, heading for a portico that led around to the stables. They hurried forward.

“Whose carriage is this?” Mrs. Forsythe asked the man.

“A gentleman caller, mum, just arrived.” He shrugged.

But the eyes of the three met, and there was some curiosity in them all. “A gentleman caller!”

Mr. O'Brien's only thought was that it might be a man who was his competition; another curate hoping to be presented with the living at Glendover. He was soon to be ousted, in that case. He sighed.

As soon as they had removed their outer garments, they made their way back to the drawing room. When they entered, Mr. Mornay and a young man of distinctly fine dress and bearing came rapidly to their feet. He had dark hair, tightly curled for a man. His clothing was extremely fine, in the style of Mr. Mornay's garments, snugly fitted. Beatrice wondered if he were a lord, for he had the countenance and posture of a pampered man, not timid in company, as her idea of bluebloods was. She felt an immediate awe of his presence. And a great deal of interest.

“Excellent, you're returned!” exclaimed Ariana. “We have a new guest, a new neighbour, in fact, from the Manor House.

“Mama, I bid you welcome Mr. Tristan Barton.” The excitement in her tone was unmistakable. As the three came into the room she continued smoothly, making the introductions. “My mother, sir, Mrs. Forsythe.”

He gave an infinitesimally small bow, but said, “At your service, ma'am.” She nodded, with the slightest curtsey. “I am pleased to meet you, sir.” She then took a seat on a settee.

Beatrice also curtsied quickly upon his introduction, and Mr. Barton's eyes flickered over her with a studied air of politeness; but inside he felt a surge of interest in the fair young woman, and was able to take a quick appraisal of her appearance.

“And, Mr. Peter O'Brien, sir,” she said, “who is a curate.” The two men were not far in age and looked at each other pleasantly enough.

“Ah!” he said, having found a point on which to comment. “So you preside in this parish?”

“No, sir; Mr. O'Brien is a friend of the family,” said Ariana, quickly. “He resides in London.”

When Mr. Barton learned that it was Mr. O'Brien's first visit to Aspindon House, he said, “Then we are both new to the neighbourhood. Capital. I shan't be the only one who knows nothing of the place.”

“Indeed, you are not, sir,” put in Ariana, “as my mother and sister are only visiting, as well as Mrs. Royleforst and Miss Bluford.” (He had already been introduced to those ladies.) “And what do you think?” Ariana asked the others, with a smile. “Mr. Barton has even done us the felicity of bringing with him a sister!”

“You have a sister with you, sir?” Mrs. Forsythe asked, smilingly.

“Yes, ma'am,” he said, with a little smile. “I am afraid I had to leave Miss Barton home today, as she was feeling rather unwell, but I expect she will wish to make your acquaintance, indeed, all of your acquaintances, as soon as possible. She is seldom indisposed, and I am sure she will accompany me here as soon as Mr. and Mrs. Mornay will allow me to call again.”

“May I ask the age of your sister, sir?” asked Mrs. Forsythe. She was endeavouring to ascertain what sort of company they could expect in this woman.

“My sister is younger than I am,” he said, and with a sparkle in his eye, added, “if that is any indication.”

“Oh indeed it 'tis!” she replied, with a laugh in her voice. “I take it she is quite young, then.”

“Oh, not so very young,” he answered, cryptically. “She is indeed five years my junior, and might well have married by now, only I have not found a gentleman I can approve of,” he said, eyeing Mr. O'Brien suggestively.

“In other words,” said Mrs. Royleforst, “your sister is an intelligent young woman of marriageable age, and we should all look forward to meeting her.”

“You have the right of it, ma'am,” he said, smiling, and beginning to enjoy himself.

Mrs. Forsythe was happy to think that another young woman of gentility would soon be of their company, for Beatrice's sake; but she also grew aware of a slight caution within her. What if Miss Barton began to turn the head of Mr. O'Brien? It also occurred to her, on the other hand, that Mr. Barton might be a suitable prospect for Beatrice; she would have to learn more of his character to know.

“I do
so
look forward to making her acquaintance,” said Ariana. Why do you not come by with Miss Barton on the morrow?”

He smiled.“I think I may speak for my sister in saying that we should be delighted to join you, thank you very much.”

“And do you always speak so confidently of what your sister might enjoy?” asked Mr. O'Brien, but with a smile.

Mr. Barton hesitated, returning the smile. “Not always, no. But I think I am safe in this, for I see a company of lovely ladies in this room, all of whom she will be delighted to converse with. We have made no other acquaintances yet, you understand; so this will be just the thing to please her.”

Beatrice was listening, but was equally busy taking in every inch of the fine Mr. Barton, from his breeches and pure white stockings and cravat, to a ring on his finger. My, but he was a fine figure of a man! She had thought Mr. O'Brien to be impressive when he first appeared in the drawing room, but next to Mr. Barton, his elegance paled. Then again, Mr. Barton was a smaller man; tall and lean, but with the easy slimness of youth. Whereas Mr. O'Brien, who was also tall, seemed somehow to be a more substantial man, more mature, perhaps. He was not large of girth by any means, but seemed more muscular beneath the dark superfine and cambric, than the young Barton.

The three gentlemen began to discuss the hunting and shooting in the area, so that Ariana came and sat with her relations. “Only think how amusing this shall be, to have new neighbours who are not only friendly, but of a comparable age to myself and Mr. Mornay.”

“But you and Mr. Mornay are not of a comparable age,” replied Beatrice, who was technically accurate, but Ariana shrugged this off. “I mean, who may prove to be like-minded people. If Mr. Mornay approves of them, we may even put up a party, perhaps a little ball.”

“Oh, I should adore that!” cried Beatrice. But this reminded her of something. “I hope you are still considering a trip to London, though, Ariana. And that I may come with you.”

“I may need to make that trip,” Ariana replied, eyes alight. She was thinking of her plans to visit charitable institutions in the city. “But not until we are better acquainted with the Bartons.”

From across the room, they heard Mr. Mornay say, “Now you must tell us what brings you to Middlesex. How did you settle upon the Manor?” The women all turned to face their guest, being desirous of the same information.

Mr. Barton stifled a surprising stab of fear.
Here it is! The question that would either pave his way or ruin his scheme
. It was bound to come up, and he had prepared to answer it. “I am looking for an escape from Town,” he said, with an easy smile. “I thought Lord Malcolm would have told you, actually. My father left the country when I was young, and now I wish to know more of it to understand his reasons. I have been disposed against it for all my life without knowing precisely
why
I am.” (He smiled.) “I felt it was time to determine for myself whether country living is truly as vile as he presented it, or if I have been brain-addled by him for no cause.”

This of course, brought forth a barrage of support for country living, until Beatrice said, “I am, I fear, the only one here who will not encourage you in country life, sir.” To his raised brow, she added, “I, for one,
abhor
the country!” Beatrice was delighted with Aspindon House and its environs, but this little fact did not seem to enter her brain at the moment.

“You enjoyed our walk just now!” exclaimed her mother, in amazement.

Beatrice's gaze met Mr. O'Brien's, who was listening with an intent expression. She felt suddenly a little abashed at her strong terms, and so added, “Well, Aspindon House is of course singular in its delights. If I lived here year-round, I daresay I could bear it well enough.” (There were titters around the room.) “But we hail from Chesterton, sir, where all is provincial and dull, I assure you.”

Mr. Barton said, “I can say nothing against your sentiment, ma'am, as I make it a rule never to contradict a lady,” which brought forth more general gaiety. But Mr. Mornay had not done learning of his new guest. “But how did you come to this small hamlet?” he persisted, to the man. “Am I to understand that you have some ties to the area? A wife who is to join you here?”

“I?” He was greatly surprised. “No, sir! I-er, learned of Lord Malcolm's extraordinary terms in letting his house; that he would take a monthly lease, which suits me exactly. It allows me to test the country without the expense or commitment of buying a house. I have engaged the property for only a month, and I may renew it for another if I choose. His lordship even expressed a possible willingness to part with the place entirely if I find it agreeable.” He paused, and scanned the faces around him and then smiled. “How could I resist?”

“How kind of Lord Malcolm,” said Ariana, wonderingly.

Mr. Barton smiled. “Yes, ma'am. Most providential.”

“It does seem hard on the neighbourhood, though; taking the house for so short a period.” Mr. Mornay's eyes were keenly watching the guest as he spoke. But he knew that no one in the village would be pleased about the Bartons—or anyone—coming to “try out” their village. They would be at a loss as to how to treat them, and resentment would soon win out. A man of means who meant not to stay might just be up to no good. Such men might alight upon a small town merely to search out a naïve young woman to form a dalliance with. It was known to happen.