The Country House Courtship (26 page)

“Miss Forsythe—I think it best if I leave you here with the fire, while I return to the house and get you a mount.”

She looked up at him, her eyes large as she considered his words. “Oh, I do not think it necessary,” she answered, standing up. She had been warming her boots obediently, and now went to put them on. She sat back down and inserted one foot, saying, “Oh! I have warmed it too well!”

“It will cool soon enough,” he murmured, watching. “In fact, I do think our best course is to avoid your having to walk any distance in this weather. I promise you, I will make haste. You can lock the door behind me.” He started preparing to leave, putting on his greatcoat.

“No!” she cried, and then was embarrassed by her own fear. In a lower voice, she said, “We do not even know for certain that this is the parsonage. What if we are…trespassing?”

“This is certainly Mr. Mornay's land, and you are a member of the family; I do not think you can be accused of anything; particularly when your reason for coming in was so dire.”

She looked around and although the cottage had lost none of its rustic charm, she did not want to be left alone there. She looked to him and said, “It's no good; I cannot stay alone.”

His face softened, but he said, “There is a bar for the door which you may close once I leave. You'll be safe here, I'm certain.”

“I'll be miserable and worrying the whole time.”

“That's better than to be frostbitten again.” He wrapped himself in his scarf and put on his gloves. She tied her boots and stood, and hurried over before he could leave. She got right in front of him. “I'm afraid that,
where you go, I go
.” Belatedly she realized that the allusion of that statement came from the book of Ruth, implying a “til death do us part” sort of commitment, and she blushed faintly.
Oh, fie, he couldn't think I meant anything by that!

And, though his clear blue eyes were fastened on hers, and may even have twinkled, being the good and sensible man that Mr. O'Brien was, he made absolutely no remark or joke, or anything to make her suspect that he did.
How kind!
Mr. O'Brien was a gentleman—he cared about her sensibilities.

“Miss Forsythe; I insist that you stay. Your sister will never forgive me were I to allow any harm to come to you; I was already remiss in letting us walk so far as we did. I cannot make that mistake again.”

Beatrice listened, her large eyes revealing alarm, but she knew she could not allow him to have his way. Her feeling changed to amusement. He was sweet to try to protect her feet, but it was the rest of her that Beatrice was worried about. “I am sorry for it, sir,” she said, with a smile, removing his hand from her arm where he was holding her back. “My sister will understand when you tell her how adamant I was in accompanying you back to the house. She knows that I am…”

“Willful?” he supplied, with a sideways smile.

“I was going to say, ‘strong-minded,'” she replied, but she was still smiling. Pulling on her gloves she said, brightly, “Well! Shall we go?”

He looked at her wryly a moment. “Miss Beatrice,” he said, softly, getting her full attention. When they were acquainted in the past, she had been “Miss Beatrice,” and suddenly days gone by were coming back at her. He put out his hand. “May I see your gloves?” She had just put them on, and she held out her hands. He peered at them a moment, and then suddenly took both of her hands and swiftly pulled the gloves off!

“What are you doing?” she asked, and then immediately knew. He was not going to let her accompany him!

“I still have a muff!” she cried, and grabbing it, made a dash for the door. He was too much the gentleman to stop her she thought.

He pulled her back by the waist with a surprising strength, and with a sigh, said, into the back of her head, “Must you make me take hold of you to keep you safe? You are being…naughty!”

She said, “No, sir!
You
are! You ought not to have touched me!” She pushed away and turned to face him, but in a few seconds they both smiled, and then started to laugh. He had already massaged her feet at length! He looked at her appraisingly.

“If I allow you to leave this cottage, do you think Mr. Mornay will ever hold me in the least respect?”

“He already does,” she said, knowing nothing about it.

His brows went up. “No. Your feet, once having frozen, are more prone to it, again.” He looked outside. “It only gets later and colder. You must listen to me, and stay put. I will run the entire distance, or at least until I drop from exhaustion.”

Her eyes widened with alarm, but he grinned.

“I'm jesting; I won't drop from exhaustion, I assure you. I will
run
, Miss Forsythe. You have only to stay by the fire like a good girl for a short while. Now, do I have your word?”

She looked around at the place. It might have been cozy, with more candlelight and cheery furnishings, but it had an empty look about it. She knew, the moment he left, she was going to feel a vague fright. It would be nameless and unreasonable, perhaps, but she would feel it, just the same.

She looked at him plaintively. “I cannot. I am sorry for it. Please let me accompany you.”

He was puzzled. “Why cannot you?”

She sighed heavily. “I will be frightened here alone.” She hated the sound of her own words; despised herself for being such a coward, but she had to tell him. She could see he was not going to let her leave with him, otherwise.

He walked over to her, and once again reached for her hands. She thought he would give her the gloves, but he had already stuffed them into a pocket. Instead he held her hands within his own larger ones, and said, “Allow me to pray for you.” His eyes were so kind and compassionate, that she did.

He prayed simply, and to the point. He thanked God for their safety and the use of the cottage, and for the restoration of Beatrice's feet with no lasting injury. And he prayed for the mighty hand of God to rest over her and this little house, for angels to minister at its doors and windows, standing guard, and to keep her, now and eternally, safe.

Beatrice was struck by his words. His earnest, wonderful, gentle words. He was so caring! She had a terrible urge to reach up and kiss his cheek. But instead she turned away and went and sat by the fireplace. “Lock the door, please,” she said, in a quiet voice.

“I'll be back for you as quickly as possible!”

What on earth was wrong with her? One minute she was angry and resentful that she might not have a rich husband like Ariana; the next she wanted nothing more than to fall into Mr. O'Brien's arms!

It was madness. It was irritating. She wanted two things, and could not have them both. If she were to open her heart to the curate, she was kissing her dreams of grandeur good-bye. If she did not, she would never forget his kind ways and earnestness, and large blue eyes, and handsome demeanour…Oh, it was too vexing to think upon!

She caught movement from the corner of her eye and looked out a window just in time to see the last of Mr. O'Brien disappearing into the wood. He was running.

Mr. O'Brien figured that he had run about half the distance, and had to stop and catch his breath for a moment. He used his woolen scarf to protect his lungs from the cold, and was about to resume his trek when he heard the sound of a horse approaching, and let out a cry of, “Ho, there!”

He saw the animal first, and then its rider, but did not recognize the man immediately. The rider said, “Whoa,” and pulled on the reins, and then clip-clopped up to the cleric. The horse whinnied to a stop.

“Here you are!” the man said. “I see I'm still in time to be of service.”

Mr. Barton pressed his heels lightly into the horse's side and circled Mr. O'Brien, making it very difficult for the curate to speak to him, but he cried, “You can be of service, sir, by lending me your horse!”

Mr. Barton eyed him and then asked, “Where is Miss Forsythe, sir?”

Mr. O'Brien fell silent. He did not wish to send Barton to a woman alone. Finally, he said, “Make room for me; I'll take you to her.”

He climbed atop the horse, and directed them back to the cottage. Beatrice, watching from a window, was ecstatic at the speed at which she was being rescued. She burst out the front door before the men had a chance to reach it. As they rode up, she saw Mr. Barton first, and smiled in surprise. His face was drawn. She realized Mr. O'Brien was behind him as he got off the animal. He held out a hand to her, and she came forward.

“Come,” Mr. Barton said, “extending his own hand toward Beatrice. I shall return you to the house at once. Help her up, will you, O'Brien?”

Mr. O'Brien lifted Beatrice as high as he could, looking deeply into her eyes when they chanced to be close to his. Mr. Barton did his part to bring up her up securely in front of him. She sat with his arms holding the reins on either side of her, her legs on one side. Mr. Barton put one arm protectively about her middle, while tightening up his hold on the reins.

With a nod, he dug in his heels, and Beatrice felt a stab of regret as they turned around to be off. “Thank you!” she cried to Mr. O'Brien, looking tall and dignified in front of the cottage. “Thank you!”

He acknowledged her words with a simple nod, but there was a grim look on his face. It was not an expression she had seen on him ever before.

Mr. O'Brien found a bucket in the house, but no water. If there had been water, it would have been frozen in any case. He had to scoop out the hot coals and tote them outside in a black pot that was made for such things. He carefully scraped every last bit of ash just to be safe, and then finally blew out the candle lamp, and the smaller candle. In the dark, he found the door, and then closed it behind him. He was mildly worried that Mr. Barton would not return Beatrice directly to the house, but there was nothing he could do at the moment. He wrapped his scarf again more securely about his neck, and adjusted his hat. Bending his head against the cold, he started the long walk back.

Beatrice didn't usually ride a tall horse, and never with a man. She was uncomfortable and a little bit frightened at how far the ground was, not to mention the jerking of the animal. Mr. Barton could tell she was scared, and he tightened his grip about her.

“Do not worry,” he said, “I've got you!” And he did; but she did not care to have him holding her about the middle.

“Perhaps you would do better to slow down,” she yelled. He seemed not to have heard her, but Beatrice would not turn her face toward his—not when she was practically in the man's lap. He was able to speak right into her ear, however, and he yelled, “I am delighted to be of service to you, Miss Forsythe!”

She winced. He did not need to yell for her to hear! She merely nodded her head. Suddenly a man was there ahead, upon a great black horse, blocking the path with his large mount. Barton slowed down, and they came abreast of each other. Without a word, the man lifted a rifle from somewhere, and Beatrice's heart jumped into her throat! What was happening? But she caught a glimpse of a handsome face beneath the hat, behind the high collar—it was Mr. Mornay! Thank God!

Mr. Mornay held the gun in one hand, and balancing it against his leg, cocked it, and sent a shot into the air. Beatrice jumped despite herself, making Mr. Barton tighten his grasp all the more. If Mr. Mornay had been surprised to find Mr. Barton on his property, with one of his own horses, and his sister-in-law almost in his arms, he did not show it. Mr. Fotch appeared on his animal.