The Country House Courtship (29 page)

“A physician is on his way, Mrs. Taller! He will help you, I promise!” But Ariana's voice was weak, and the tears in her eyes were no longer from the biting cold.

Giles Taller took hold of his wife's hands and pried them loose from Ariana. His face was set in a mean frown, and his eyes were troubled. “What're you doin'?” he asked his wife, in weak tones of dismay. He was bewildered, or horrified, Ariana could not tell.

“What're you doin'? Ye're goin' ta make everythin' worse!” He had turned her around to face him, and the lady had stared up at him with glazed eyes. Suddenly, she went unconscious, just like that. He pulled her to her feet, slumping against him, and then he hefted her up into his arms and turned and tromped back to the cottage carrying her.

Mr. Horton had been approaching from some distance but reached her now, astride his horse. “Did she touch you?” he asked Ariana.

Ariana was so surprised by that question, and still in a bit of shock over what had just occurred, that all she could do for a moment was look at him silently. She wanted her husband's arms to collapse into, but he wasn't there. “Mrs. Mornay, did Mrs. Taller touch you? Please, I need to know!”

“Yes. Yes, she did. Why?”

“The fever. Her daughter's sick with it, and she may 'ave it too.”

As soon as he said that, Ariana realized that Mrs. Taller's hands had been hot. Here they were, out in the cold, and her hands were
hot
. Mrs. Taller had the fever, like her daughter. That explained her odd behavior, her begging Ariana to heal her child.

Mr. Horton was looking back at the couple, smaller now as they approached the distant cottage, and was shaking his head. He'd give them the boot, for sure. After all his precautions, how had this happened? What was Mrs. Mornay doing out here, anyway?

“Mrs. Mornay,” he said, jumping down from the animal. “Take my horse and get you back to the house. I would advise you, ma'am, to send for Mr. Speckman, and not to see the children until you see him.”

Ariana looked at him wonderingly. The situation was still sinking in on her. While she hesitated, he grew more exasperated. “Madam, please!” He lifted her upon the horse, and handed her the reins.

“Mrs. Mornay.” He finally got her attention fully. “Go to the house and call the doctor.” She nodded, but her mind was still on the sad plight of her tenants, of Mrs. Taller's desperation and fear; she turned the horse around, however, and soon saw Mr. Mornay, still astride his own mount, coming over the hill. Ariana gave her horse a slap of the reins, and went to meet him.

Mr. Horton turned in their direction, but his steps were heavy. His heart was even heavier. He'd only found out about the sick children minutes earlier, from the cottagers who lived right behind the Tallers. Now what would happen? And what would happen to
her
? The beautiful wife of Mr. Mornay?

What if she had already caught the illness? How would he forgive himself? And what would his master do about it? All these questions flooded his mind, and he made an instant decision to ask in town for the latest news of the malady. Where was it spreading? How many were dying from it? Most importantly
, could anything be done
?

The husband and wife, meanwhile, conferred together, their horses side by side, while he watched, approaching. Mr. Mornay reached across from where he sat, and took his wife bracingly by the arms. He kissed her face. She was now in tears, it appeared. Finally, after he had spoken something more to her, she gently pressed her heels into the horse's side, and soon disappeared over the hill.

When Mr. Mornay had come about and was facing him, he could tell, even at the distance he was, that his employer was not happy. Nor should he be. He plodded on to face him.

M
r. Barton, you are more jovial than even your usual jovial self,” observed Mrs. Royleforst, in the drawing room. She had finally made her public entrance feeling much restored after taking breakfast in her room.

Miss Forsythe was rosy-cheeked and glowing, but seemed downcast; Mr. Barton, also red from the outdoors, was full of witticisms and good manners; and Miss Barton seemed to be at peace on this day, as though she had resolved some nagging, pressing issue. Mr. O'Brien entered the room just then, and he, too, looked as though he had just come in from the cold.

“Ah, you are observant, ma'am,” Mr. Barton replied, with a bow of acknowledgement. “I am merely pleased that I was able to be of service to our Miss Forsythe just now.”

Beatrice said nothing, especially since she was watching Mr. O'Brien cautiously. She had to let him know how important it was to keep to the story she and Mr. Barton had agreed upon!

“And how were you of service?” Mrs. Royleforst wished to know.

“I rescued a damsel in distress!” he said, with his usual well-spoken aplomb; he made sure to make eye contact with O'Brien
. Good. He was listening
.

“Rescued?
” Her little black eyes grew wide, as wide as they were capable of getting. “Tell me everything!” she cried. “What happened? Is that why the house was deserted? When Miss Bluford and I came down this morning, we could not so much as locate a footman! No butler! Nary a housemaid! I said to my companion, ‘Miss Bluford, it appears that this house has gone deserted! We are abandoned!'”

Miss Bluford was already nodding her head in earnest agreement. “Indeed!”

“We could hardly get a cup of bohea, much less a bite of refreshment,” she added. “And at Aspindon!”

Mr. O'Brien said, meeting Beatrice's eyes (which were unaccountably alarmed, he thought), “I can tell you what happened. Nothing exciting, I'm afraid.” She was still staring at him apprehensively. He studied her, and knew something was distressing her.

“Yes?” said Mrs. Royleforst.

Mr. O'Brien continued, very slowly. “Miss Forsythe was getting her exercise, and I offered to escort her.”

“What sort of exercise?” asked Mrs. Royleforst curiously.

“Just walking, ma'am. On the property.”

“Miss Forsythe was walking and so you joined her.”

“Exactly.”

“Not alone?”

“She would have been alone, but I walked with her.”

“Just the two of you?”

“Yes, just the two of us,” he said, very deliberately, as if anyone who dared to challenge the propriety of it must needs answer for it. Beatrice's heart was pounding. It was all going to come out, she knew it! She looked with a panicked expression to Mr. Barton, who was waiting for his moment to take over the story, watching with as much interest as Beatrice.

Mrs. Royleforst started to take a sip of tea, but stopped in midair. “Where did you walk to, alone, just the two of you?”

“We
saw
Glendover, ma'am,” Beatrice put in. She could not stand to be silent a moment longer, for fear that Mr. O'Brien would spill the whole business.

“What? Impossible! Not on foot, in this cold!” Her teacup was hastily returned to its saucer, causing a small amount of liquid to splosh on her gown. Miss Bluford instantly produced a handkerchief and came to her mistress's aid, while the lady, ignoring her companion, said, “I am all astonishment!” and cast a sly look at first Beatrice, and then the cleric, who had taken on a look of concern.
It was odd,
he thought,
that both Mr. Mornay and Mrs. Royleforst had found it hard to believe they'd been to Glendover. Could he and Beatrice have found a shortcut to the place? But no, it was a well-worn path. Why was it hard for them to believe they might have walked the mile or so to the cottage? And what was Beatrice about, anyway?

Before anything more could be said, Mrs. Forsythe came into the drawing room and just stood, looking at everyone for a moment. She had already been apprised of her daughter's safe return, and she would certainly discover every last detail regarding the event—later. For the moment, she surmised from Beatrice's calm visage and manner, that the gentleman had indeed acted a gentleman throughout the ordeal.

Then, looking at Mrs. Royleforst, she said, “I gave my express leave for Mr. O'Brien to accompany my daughter, ma'am. He is an old family friend, and we trust him implicitly.”

Mr. Barton's eyes narrowed; he did not like to hear praise of his competition. Mr. O'Brien, meanwhile, could almost have stood a little taller. He was grateful for those kind words. And Beatrice breathed a sigh of relief.

Mrs. Forsythe turned to the whole room. “There is a sick child on the estate; her mother was quite distraught. I beg each of you to think of her when you say your prayers this night.” Mrs. Forsythe had already located a flustered Frederick, who had just returned from searching for the missing couple, as he had heard the shot. He now had to send for the doctor apace, and see that he went directly to the Taller cottage. (Mr. Frederick was not used to such excitement. A multitude of guests always did upset the apple cart, he reflected…)

Mrs. Forsythe came into the room and sat down. She took a breath, then stood and pulled the bellpull. “A cup of China tea,” she said, when a maid appeared.

Mrs. Royleforst thought she had given this interruption enough time. “Well, I can allow that you had permission, but now you must relate your adventure in full,” she said, putting her eyes upon Beatrice.

Oh, no!
But Mr. Barton now came to the rescue. With a pointed look at Mr. O'Brien, he said, “Allow me, ma'am. We were all concerned for the safety of our friends because of the cold, and when the other gentlemen rode out to search for Miss Forsythe (he did not mention the curate), my sister and I arrived just after. I knew immediately that I must do my part, of course. I found a horse, and went searching for them, and I was fortunate enough to be the man to find the wayward couple,” he finished playfully. “Mr. O'Brien was good enough to give Miss Forsythe a hand up, and I was able to take her back to safety.”

While Mrs. Royleforst nodded, listening, he added, again with a look at O'Brien: “There was no question of impropriety, you see, unless you wish to think that two people, dressed to the nines in coats and gloves and scarves can be very much improper with each other.”

“Oh, sir!” Mrs. Forsythe said, for she knew nothing of the cottage. “Of course there is no question of impropriety! Upon my word!”

Mr. O'Brien was understanding enough to comprehend that Beatrice wished to keep the full extent of the event under wraps; and, since he saw no harm in doing so at present, said nothing to contradict Mr. Barton's account. But he was curious to know exactly what was afoot with Beatrice and Barton. Besides which, if he was questioned by Mr. Mornay, he would tell the entire truth.

Beatrice said, “Exactly so. We merely walked to the parsonage. We followed a pathway that was so well worn we simply had to know what lay at its end!” Beatrice smiled at the memory.

Mrs. Royleforst, who knew the estate, raised her eyebrows above both of her little black eyes. “You're certain it was the parsonage! Glendover!” Her tone was infused with disbelief.

“Yes, ma'am, and we were charmed, you must know, by its quaint air and lovely prospect.”

“
Quaint
air?” She seemed more surprised than ever.

Mr. O'Brien decided to do his part in the telling. “The worst of it was that Miss Forsythe's feet began to suffer the cold. I would think you should keep close by the fire,” he said even now, turning to her. She gazed at him apprehensively. He appeared to be keeping their secret. But all eyes were upon her, so she looked around in surprise and exclaimed, “I am fully recovered, I assure you!”

Mr. O'Brien cleared his throat and Beatrice watched him cautiously. He was going to require an explanation, that much she could tell. So be it. As she thought what to say to him, the door to the room burst open again, only this time it was Mr. Mornay. The look upon his face had the effect of silencing even the thoughts of each member inside it.

Mr. Mornay stood for a moment, surveying them all. He still wore his full outdoor costume except for his hat. But the fact that he had on his overcoat and gloves, and his face, ruddy from the cold, made them all aware, even before he spoke, that he had something of moment to impart.