The Country House Courtship (21 page)

When they had all bundled up into their outer garments, including Mr. Hargrove, who was happily directing them outdoors, they moved as a group toward the church. From this distance, they could see the spire above the horizon, rising among the trees and calling to mind the best picturesque scenes of the country that anyone could desire. Their path led them up a gentle hill, and then back down, before widening into a lane that led around to the back of the building. There was a separate path from the road, but this one was how the vicar always went to church.

He and Mr. Mornay were now in the lead, and the others came up behind, first Ariana and Mrs. Forsythe; followed by Beatrice and Mr. Barton; and then Mr. O'Brien and Miss Barton.

“This must be a lovely sight in spring,” breathed Ariana, looking all around. The others concurred. Even the little cemetery coming into view was picturesque, with its odd assemblage of old stones, some at angles, which spoke of their antiquity. Beatrice saw the little winter scene and could not call it displeasing; she said nothing, however, and merely stopped when the others did, admiring the little hamlet where the church sat, and was surprised to find that she felt refreshed by the view.

They entered the actual churchyard through a lych-gate, and followed a little stone path through the lawn, which held the cemetery. Behind the cemetery was a tall privet hedge, almost as high as her head, and Beatrice hurried toward it, leaving the others, calling, “Oh, what do you think is on the other side?” Mr. Barton watched her for a moment, and then he, too, started toward the hedge. He caught up with her as she reached the wall of greenery.

“Come, Beatrice,” Ariana called. “We're going inside!”

Mr. Barton said, “Shall we look for a hole in the privet?”

Beatrice wavered. He was a handsome young man, and looking deeply into her eyes. She had a near smile upon her mouth, but did not answer directly. He turned and looked back to see the progress of the others, and saw they had all gone inside the building. He started to lean his head down toward Beatrice's—to her amazement, for she hadn't a thought of being kissed—when Mrs. Forsythe, who had lingered at the door was suddenly there, calling, “Beatrice! Come at once!”

Mr. Barton froze, and then came to his full height again, and offered her his arm, all the while looking intently into her eyes. “Shall we?” he asked.

She took his arm, but all the way to the door her heart beat with the thought that this man had very nearly kissed her! Beatrice had never been kissed by a gentleman, and it was a rather shocking thought.

Further, she had no idea if she ought not to allow a man to kiss her once; was it a sin? When they were not betrothed? She suddenly felt young, and not altogether sure of herself. Perhaps she had been flirting with Mr. Barton too much. When they reached her mother, who was giving her a look of large-eyed alarm, she moved her arm off of Mr. Barton's and entered the building. “Thank you, Mama! We were just looking to see the prospect beyond the hedge! But I do wish to see this place.”

“'Tis only a simple country church,” said Mr. Barton behind her.

“I suppose you would have preferred the privet hedge?” asked Mrs. Forsythe in a rare, dry tone, seldom heard from her.

Inside the structure, they stood, blinking a minute to let their eyes adjust to the dim light.

“Look,” said Mrs. Forsythe, and she pointed up at the eaves. Two small stone cherubs stared out, unseeing, at the entrance.

“Oh! What made you look up?” asked Beatrice.

Mrs. Forsythe smiled. “Even the smallest churches are often laden with little astonishing architectural details,” she said. “Your papa and I have gone through many a country church looking for just such things.” Ahead they could hear the vicar speaking, pointing out things he was particularly proud of, but Beatrice was content to let her own mother be her guide. Mr. O'Brien was suddenly there as well.

“Did you see the little cherubs?” he asked, his tall head only inches from the lowest one.

“We did! My mother pointed it out.” He reached up and touched the foot of one of them.

“Not very smooth,” he said, with a smile. Beatrice thought,
How very tall he is
. “Come, we can peer up into the tower,” he said then, and she followed him. Mrs. Forsythe and Mr. Barton trailed behind them. At the bottom of the tower, he pointed up to where the bells were, way on top. “I'm glad this church has a spire, and not a ‘witch hat,'” he said, flashing another smile.

Beatrice breathed a laugh. “A witch hat! Why would they call it that?”

“In the absence of an actual spire, some churches do have tops that look like witch hats,” he said, “though you can't tell from inside.”

She gazed upward. The heavy ropes for the ringing of the bells disappeared into the darkness of the cavernous large bells above.

“I should like to hear the bells,” she said, looking up at the large, silent forms.

“I hope you may.” Their eyes met. His were earnest and quite blue, even in the dim light. He pointed out the steps which would twist and turn all the way to the top of the tower.

“I shan't be climbing those today,” she said, in case he was considering it, but he only said, “No, in warmer weather, perhaps.”

They turned back to the direction of the nave where the rest of the party, save Mrs. Forsythe and Mr. Barton, had gone. The others looked up at the bells, and continued to follow behind Beatrice and Mr. O'Brien.

While they were still in the porch, Beatrice asked, “What is this?” She was looking at an old plaque of tarnished brass or some such metal that was engraved, but she could not quite make out the inscription. Mr. O'Brien produced some tinder and a box, and he soon had lit a wall sconce which helped.

“It's a list,” she said. “But who are they?”

Mr. O'Brien came and peered at it. “They are the past vicars or rectors, I believe.”

“Shall your name be added to this list?” she asked, excitedly.

He smiled. “I don't know.”

They looked again with the same thought at the same time: to see if the name of Mr. Hargrove was on it. Their heads were practically touching, and Beatrice said, “I do not see it. He isn't here.”

“I'm afraid not” he agreed.

She turned and his face was right beside hers. Startled, she nevertheless noted afresh that Mr. O'Brien had undeniably beautiful eyes. There was something so benevolent in them; unreproachful, though she knew she deserved to feel his reproach, for she had done nothing but undercut the pride he must have felt at his new house. All of her big talk about making a rich match—why had she felt the need to put him in his place?

Once again their eyes met, and Beatrice turned away.

N
ow Mrs. Forsythe had come up behind them, and saw their proximity to one another, and she did a remarkable thing. She put her hand firmly upon Mr. Barton's arm (he too saw the pair standing tantalizingly close to one another) and said, “Sir, I desire you take me to the rest of the party.”

He hesitated; he looked at the couple; he looked at Mrs. Forsythe; she was staring at him, waiting. He looked at the couple again.

“Sir, if you
please!
” she said, in an urgent whisper. It was a strident tone coming from this gentle lady. With a breath of resignation, Mr. Barton led her forth, out of the porch, and into the long nave.

“What is this?” asked Beatrice. She had seen such things before, a large stone in the floor with a design of some sort, or writing worn beyond recognition, and never thought to ask about them. This one was hexagonal and stood out in stark contrast to the brick shaped stones around it.

“It's called a memorial stone,” Mr. O'Brien said. “Someone of wealth or high standing pays to have it here, usually to remember a loved one.” He searched around the floor. “Look, here are more of them.” When he looked up again, his eyes were alight. “I say, this building is a delight!”

Beatrice came and admired the other memorial stones, noting how they were each different, and what their similarities were.

“The others seem to have moved on quickly,” he said. “But we should look at the baptismal font, for it might be an ancient one; and the stained glass windows often have little areas telling who made them or paid for them.”

“Upon my word!” said Beatrice. “I feel as though I am in a museum!”

He stopped and met her eyes. “But you are, Miss Forsythe. Every ancient structure is history come to life. Especially a church.”

The silence in the large nave (for the others had moved on ahead) was peaceful. She stood, looking about at the pews, the high rafters, and spacious depths of the ceiling; the soft, filtered light that made its way in from the stained glass was just enough to make it all out, but almost as though it was a halo substance; cloudlike, ethereal. They stood side by side for a full minute or more, just gazing around them, taking in the peculiarly intimate atmosphere of a place that could hold a hundred or more people, but was empty except for themselves.

They moved forward, past many rows of pews, while he pointed out everything of interest that he discovered, and all in his lovely, soft voice. Memorial plaques on the walls, or the indentation where a stone had been, but was no longer intact. After they had peered into the choir loft and admired the high platform from which Mr. O'Brien would give his sermons, he bade her examine the altar-screen. It was an elaborate carved piece of artistry, and Beatrice said, in an awed voice, “Do you know? I have never really looked at one before. I have been raised in the church, and yet I have missed so much of its beauty! Why is that?”

Mr. O'Brien was silent a moment, and looked away with an unreadable expression. When he looked back at her, he said, with the smallest hint of a smile, “Perhaps it is because you never looked at one with me, before.” There was a question mark at the end of his statement, and it hung there in the air between them.

From somewhere else in the building, far away, they could hear the muted tones of the others; still his question remained, until she said, “I think you are exactly right! I must tell my mother what a good church guide you are; a historical guide.” He stepped closer, saying, “Allow me to show you the leading pews, which I have a suspicion will be carved quite spectacularly, since the altar-screen is so elaborate.” He moved her forward, putting one arm lightly about her waist, and then they both heard someone clear his throat rather loudly.

Mr. Barton stepped forward out of the enchanting foglike darkness. “May I join you?” he asked, in a loud voice that contrasted with the low tones Beatrice and Mr. O'Brien had been using. It was such a sharp, jarring note to her ears that it sounded like an impurity within a holy vale. He had ruined a magic moment, and the worst part of it was that Beatrice hadn't known it was magic until it was over. She felt the loss of it, and wondered briefly why being alone with Mr. O'Brien—whom she had thought too sober-minded to be any fun—had been comfortable and warm and lovely; while the entrance of Mr. Barton—whom she always found so amusing and agreeable—should be felt as an intrusion.

“I hope you find your new church agreeable?” he said, coming toward them.

Mr. O'Brien said, “Utterly. I thank you.”

“Excellent,” he replied. His eyes did not match the smile upon his face. “I also hope you have seen enough of it for your satisfaction. The rest of the party waits outside for you.” This last was finished in a more serious tone, and Mr. Barton made sure, even though Beatrice had taken Mr. O'Brien's offer of his arm, to put her other hand upon his own, so that she came out in the middle of the two men.

Over her head, while she smiled at her sister and mother, the gentlemen exchanged looks. The eyes of Mr. O'Brien were curious, and at most, cautious; Mr. Barton, however, gave the curate a look calculated to chill; it was by turns challenging and defiant. He had no intention of letting Miss Forsythe slip through his fingers.

When they reached the waiting party, Beatrice slipped away from both men. She fell into step with the other ladies, and they shared their impressions of the old building and its surprising beauty and history, as they returned to the carriage. Ariana and her mother exchanged wondering, happy looks: To find Beatrice so enthralled over the old building was a singular surprise. And encouraging.