The Country House Courtship (24 page)

Beatrice maintained her silence all the way around the turn of the house and past the stables, to the maze. It surprised her that Mr. O'Brien followed her lead, and did not talk. She was glad of it, however. She was glad of the silent stillness of winter. There wasn't another human being in sight save themselves. The workers, which might have been about the grounds in spring or summer, tending plants or crops, or repairing fences, were nowhere to be seen; and the servants who might have journeyed along that very route to the great house each morning to appear for their duties had long ago arrived and begun their tasks.

She looked about them, and saw that off to one side of the grounds, a wood began. There looked as though a path was in it, but it wended out of sight and she could not tell how far it went.

“May we take the woodland path?” she asked him, pointing over at it. He looked over, but said, “Are you not cold, yet?”

“No, I'm fine,” she said. “And I enjoy a brisk walk. If we move quickly, we can stay warm and still see where it leads.” She could not help but feel more optimistic now that she was out of doors. The day was bracingly cold, but only her face was really exposed. Beatrice had on as wintry a costume as a lady could procure. She had chosen a hooded cloak to wear over her jaconet muslin gown and velvet spencer; a bonnet beneath the hood, and a cap beneath the bonnet; an extravagantly oversized rabbit muff enclosed one of her gloved hands, such as was in style for ladies; so only her feet and cheeks reminded her of the weather, or, during a sudden breeze, her legs, which were protected only by the dress, the open cloak, and stockings. Her half-boots of kid leather were sturdy enough, but not precisely warm.

“Very well then,” he said. “Why not?” A brief smile lit his face and was rewarded with a look of thanks from Beatrice. Mr. O'Brien had his overcoat and a scarf wrapped around his neck and lower face, and a hat, and gloves, and still wore the hunting boots he had appeared in the day before.

About a quarter mile from the house, following the well-worn path, Beatrice said, “It seems less cold here.”

“There is no wind,” he said. “The trees are bare, but they are so thick that they break it before it reaches us.”

“This must be a lovely trail in summer.”

“I am sure.” They walked on, moving briskly. His long strides now and then were shortened to keep equal pace with her smaller ones. “Let me know at once, Miss Forsythe, if you are tiring, or wish to turn back.”

“I
am
tiring,” she said with a little smile (and he was very glad of that smile too), “but I am above all things curious. I must know where this comes out!”

He said, “Mr. Mornay has a great property here; we will probably come out to a field, taking its winter rest from growing some crop or other. Do you know what he plants?”

“I have no idea,” she admitted. “But it may not be a field, and you see, sir, I have to know!” She hurried on, with the feeling that they were surely near the end of this path; the tree trunks around them were gradually thinning. She could see an opening to one side, which added to her hope of reaching a clearing. They walked on, and even Mr. O'Brien's long steps were not equal to her haste.

But the path went on. Beatrice was getting cold, and her feet hurt exceedingly from it, and she was feeling cross that the end of the path was still not visible. Still she refused to turn back.

“I daresay we are going too far in this cold,” the curate finally said, slowing to a halt.

“I see something,” she cried, and quickened her pace even further. “I think it's a house!” Her nose and cheeks and chin were all red with cold, but she hurried on, crying, “Oh, look, it
is
a house!”

The path veered to the right, and there was the end of the woods, abruptly and suddenly, and after that, about a hundred feet before them, the building she had glimpsed through the trees.

She stopped to catch her breath, panting from the excitement and exercise. Mr. O'Brien took hold of her scarf, saying, “Cover your mouth and nose when you breathe that hard in this weather.”

She nodded, doing as he said, but she kept looking at the little dwelling before them.

“What do you think this place is?” she asked.

They both surveyed the house, and Beatrice started walking toward it again. There was a gated fence with a stone path that led to the door of the modest-sized cottage, and it made a cozy picture. As they drew nearer, they could see there was a small stable behind the house; only large enough for one or two horses.

“What a quaint, cheerful place, is it not?” Beatrice asked. “Right out of the pages of a storybook!” Then she looked at him as if struck. “This must be Glendover! The parsonage!”

He was looking ahead too, and slowly nodded. “It may be; it is small, however. I seem to recall Mrs. Mornay speaking of it as being larger than Warwickdon's parsonage.” They had reached the gate, and he stopped; but Beatrice reached down and undid the latch. “May we see if the house is open? My feet are rather numb.” She was stamping them trying to warm them. His brows came together in concern.

“Are they?”

“I cannot feel them at all, I think!”

“Miss Forsythe!” He was now very concerned. “Why did you not say something to me sooner?” With one arm he hurried her through the gate. He was looking around urgently, and he said, “We won't find anyone here, I can tell you that, for there's no fire inside. Anyone would have a fire in this weather.”

She looked up at him, and his face was now creased in worry. “I should not have allowed us to come this far!” He looked ahead to the house—should he try and carry her? The girl was not large, and he knew he could easily lift her, but something told him it was better for her condition if she kept putting some weight on her feet. She had to keep using them.

When they finally came up to the front of the cottage, there was little to shelter them except for a foot or so of thatched roof, overhanging the eaves. Mr. O'Brien said, “I'm quite sure it isn't occupied, but I'd best knock first.” He did, firmly, a number of hard raps to the door that anyone within would have heard. No response. He put his hand to the door handle and pressed his lips together: “Here goes.” He tried the long brass handle, and with a little, miraculous “click,” he felt it open, and then pushed with his shoulder to make the door move. He helped Beatrice over the threshold, and then firmly shut the door behind them.

“Now I cannot see!” she cried.

“Your eyes will adjust,” he murmured, squinting himself to get their bearings. He began feeling with his hands over and around the doorjambs. He came across a candle in a sconce, and then found some flint and a piece of char-cloth. “I believe I can get this lit,” he said, “if you will hold the candle.” She came toward his voice and put out her hand and felt—his overcoat. “Here it is,” he said, taking her hand in one of his and putting it to the candle.

She held it up. After a few failed attempts, suddenly there was a spark, and a quick application of the char-cloth, and then a small flame.

“Well done,” Beatrice breathed.

The candle was lit, and he held it out so they could see a little more of their surroundings. The cottage showed no evidence of recent occupation; there were no personal effects or small things such as would be about if someone lived there. But there was furniture and a candle lamp, and he went and lit that also. The fireplace was swept clean and empty, but Mr. O'Brien said, “Thanks be to God!” and he knelt down and began shoveling coal from a bin beside the fireplace, and began forming a pile in the grate. “Unfortunately, it will take some time to get good and hot,” he said, as he came to his full height and started looking for something to help get the coals to accept a flame.

“Here,” said Beatrice. She had seen a vase that was empty on a window sill, and, chancing to peer down it, discovered that it was full of small twigs and cloth scraps, and lint.

“Perfect!” he exclaimed. In a few more minutes she could smell that the coals were beginning to burn, and she drew a wooden chair closer to the fireplace and sat down upon it.

Mr. O'Brien pulled up a wing chair, cushioned, and placed it beside hers. “Sit here,” he said.

“Is there one for you?” she asked. She was embarrassed, for some reason, by his kindness.

“How are your feet?” he merely asked, in response.

“They are hurting,” she admitted, feeling as foolish as a child.

“How are they hurting? Describe what you are feeling.”

“They're quite heavy! I do not think that walking briskly was sufficient to keep them warm, after all!”

“Is there pain?” He was trying to calculate how far they had walked, and guessed about a mile.

“Yes,” she said. “It's as though I am being stabbed by many pins.” Her voice was calm, but she was beginning to feel a dread that she might have injured herself.

“Pain is a good sign,” he breathed, but he pulled the other chair up close enough so that when he sat in it, he could pick up her foot. Which she tried, at first, to resist.

“Mr. O'Brien!”

“Miss Forsythe,” he said, his eyes large and innocent, “you must allow me to help you. And every minute right now is important to your welfare.”

That shut her up abruptly. She lifted her left foot and gave it to him. He received it gently and began removing her half-boot.

“It's getting hot,” she said.

He halted, and looked at her. “Do you mean just your foot?”

“Yes; both my feet. They still hurt and now they're burning!” She felt frightened. “Why are they burning, Mr. O'Brien, do you know?”

“Yes,” he said, but his head was bent over her boot, which he now pulled off her foot. He quickly took her limb between his two hands and started rubbing hard and fast, as though trying to warm it up. Beatrice gasped from the barrage of pain and heat, and she automatically tried to draw her foot away from his reach, but Mr. O'Brien was strong, and retained his hold on her.

“Do not,” he said. “I'm afraid this is necessary.” He continued rubbing and kneading her foot with his hands. The feeling of being a pin cushion grew stronger than ever. “Does my foot feel hot to you?” she asked.

“No.”

“Oh, it is burning to me!”

He put her foot down softly, and then took her right leg, and began removing the boot. Despite working quickly, he was actually very gentle. It was only the rubbing and kneading that caused her pain, and that, she knew, could not be helped. She watched him; he stopped to throw off his overcoat and went right back to the work; and she felt helpless and unworthy.

Here he was, rubbing her feet back to life, while she had been filled with the worst sort of thoughts regarding him, earlier.

She had told herself she would not speak to him at all on the walk; he was too “holy” for her, too much a sermonizer, boring, no fun at all, and more such things. She knew that the biggest resentment she felt was based really upon the fact that she found him—underneath it all—utterly likeable, thoughtful, interesting, and handsome—but poor! He was now less poor than he had been, having Warwickdon, but she did not aspire to be a parson's wife! She did not want to live upon the lesser tithes and a glebe! Even if he were a rector, it would mean the greater tithes, but that varied by church in its amount, and promised no reassurance of being substantial.

He dropped her second foot and returned his efforts to the first. “How do you do, Miss Left Foot?” he asked, with an attempt at humour.

“I think the burning is going away!” she said, as surprised as she was relieved.

“Excellent,” he said, and he began to ease up on his administrations to her foot, now using his thumbs to gently keep the blood flowing.

“What makes them burn?” she asked. She knew the answer but needed something to say. The silence only magnified her unease.

“Frostbite,” he said, simply. “It does that.” He went back to her right foot, and using his thumbs, pressed firmly but gently, and with much less urgency than before. He did her toes, and then the sole and top of her foot. Now and then he added a little more vigour; now her right foot, now her left. Meanwhile, the radiating little fingers of needlelike pricks had slowly been abating, and now ceased altogether. Instead, his hands felt warm and soothing, causing a new sort of burning—in her cheeks!