The Country House Courtship (35 page)

He almost laughed, blanching. “Upon my word, Anne! You do draw the most confounding conclusions!” When she just continued to knit in silence, he added, with a mildly troubled look upon his face, “I daresay, men do not marry to make a wife happy; they marry to be made happy themselves! The woman was made for the man, not man for the woman! Where do you form your preposterous opinions?”

She met his gaze evenly. “I am glad, by God, that I should never be your wife. I pity the creature who is.”

This angered him. He got up and shook out his shoulders, smoothing down his apparel. “I did nothing to deserve that! And I pity you, for you shall never be any man's wife! No one marries a soiled woman.” He turned and looked at her intently. “Mind you how you speak to your brother, Miss Barton! Your welfare is in my hands, I remind you!”

He paused, nettled to see that she had heard him without making the least gesture of sorrow or regret for her behavior. To his frustration, she was not even done with him, and said, “If you do not care for your family, you are worse than an infidel or a heathen!”

He let out a breath of derision. “I will not abide this.” And with that, he strode from the room. He went first to his bedchamber, where he had stowed some foolscap and a quill and ink. He wrote, after thinking for a moment, “To His Royal Highness, the Prince Regent. I am highly gratified, sir, to have the best of news to impart to you…”

A
riana was red-eyed and crying when Mr. Mornay found her. She had been unable to stay in the bedchamber but had been drawn, inexorably, as a moth is drawn to a candle's flame, toward the large Venetian window which overlooked the frontage of the estate. It was going to hit her very hard to watch the others leaving, but she could not stay away.

So she stood there, standing off to one side so that Nigel would not spy her, and saw the departure of her relations. Her servants. Her son and daughter. She felt well in mind and body, and it was too, too unfair, this terrible result of a morning's walk on the property! She was being treated like an outcast, a leper!

When Phillip came up to her, his eyes were filled with compassion, and she turned to him with a sob in her throat and fell into his arms. “I am not ill!” she cried. “T'isn't fair! To be separated from my babies! And now, to keep you apart from them too!”

He held her up against him in a tight embrace. She sobbed into his shoulder, “No one even said good-bye! I feel like an outcast!”

He gently broke apart from her enough to see her face. “I forbade them. They are with the children! What use is there in this separation if they have contact with you, first?”

After a moment, in which her face appeared as forlorn as before, she frowned saying, “You're right! I know it! But I still feel like an out…outcast!” She could not help but to keep crying.

And just when everything had been going delightfully! Her mother and sister and Aunt Royleforst, all exulting in the children; now Mr. O'Brien was taking the curacy of their neighbouring parish; and even the appearance of the Bartons (though she had her doubts about Mr. Barton) was still a positive happenstance. They had been able to hold their own little ball without the worries of having to entertain a crowd of London personages! Dancing at Aspindon House most often occurred only at Harvest Home, or Christmas Hall and Twelfth Night festivities. This had been an elegant little affair without all the noise of the villagers. She adored it.

But now all was ruined. She was being quarantined, and for what purpose? Because of a chance encounter with Mrs. Taller! She still felt terribly sorry for the woman, but she was unable to shake the thought that if she had only not ventured outdoors, none of this would be happening. And there had been every reason to stay inside. For one, it was extremely cold outdoors. She might have called for the children and spent that time happily playing with Nigel and watching his blossoming relationship with his Aunt Royleforst and his grandmother.

But no, it was too late.

A feeling of impending tragedy fell upon her. She was like Queen Gertrude, who had just sipped from the cup of poison, though the king tried to stop her in time. She was at death's door. No, she was like those poor people of Siloam, who were out walking, just like any other day, when the tower of Siloam suddenly fell, crushing them all in a moment! Mrs. Taller had been her tower of Siloam. It was not a comforting thought. Perhaps she was (not for the first time) like Jepthah's daughter! Sweet innocence, so wrongly repaid! Why, oh why, had she stepped out of the house? Why had she not turned back when her mother spoke of the cold?

She was a headstrong, foolish girl! And she clung to her husband in her grief.

All she had was Phillip. He was still holding her, but he gently began to caress her neck with small, soft kisses. She stopped crying. It felt suddenly different, being almost alone with him in the large house.

She pushed slightly away, and surveyed him with her large eyes, still red-rimmed from crying. Her nose was pink, and her cheeks, and he had to smile a little, for he always found her adorable when she'd been upset. He said, “Do not forget that we are only quarantined for a matter of a few days. You are crying as though we'd lost our children forever.”

She sniffed. “It feels that way.”

“We must endeavour to pass the time in some useful employment, or we shall both go mad.”

“I agree. I am already Jepthah's daughter!”

“What, again?” His look of concern was genuine. “Anyone else?”

“Queen Gertrude.”

“Ah. The poisoned cup.”

“Yes.”

He waited. “That cannot be all.”

“No, I was at Siloam when the tower fell.”

“Of course.” He smiled.

She sighed. “Mrs. Taller was my tower of Siloam, I'm afraid!”

He kissed her neck again, and then her face, and was chuckling lightly. She suddenly felt somewhat lighter of heart too. It was so wonderful to have him to share her dark imaginings. He understood these moments, when dark fears assailed her, and there seemed to be a cloud of gloom hanging over her. No, it was more than that—a cloud of
doom
. And it felt inevitable. But Phillip knew how to put his finger on her fears, and his amusement somehow reduced their power over her. It was vastly comforting.

She took his cravat in her hands and played with it, or seemed to, only when she gave it a final light tug, it fell apart. “I love undoing your cravats,” she murmured. “You have a marvelous neck, Mr. Mornay, and though I admire your skill at the cloth, I admire your neck even more.”

He was smiling, and he suddenly swung her into his strong arms, and carried her, moving toward their grand bedchamber. “Yes?” he said, making her grin back at him, for she could never resist that full, handsome smile, “Is there more you admire that I may know?”

She giggled. “You should ask if there is something I do not admire about you, and then perhaps I could settle upon an answer.”

For response, he kissed her, lifting her head up with his arm to reach his head.

“I should rather you let me tell you what I admire in you, then.” Ariana had heard this before, of course, many times, but the words he used when appreciating her traits aloud were like nectar to her heart.

“By all means!”

He was walking while he carried her. He said, “Where shall I begin? I have it! I admire you ardently, passionately, and,” he paused, and eyed her with love, “with my whole heart.” Already she was melting at his tone.

“You feed my heart when you say such things.”

“Then allow me to offer you a banquet.” He paused, eyeing her in between watching their progress through the house. “Your eyes, your nose, your mouth, your ears, your neck—you are like an exquisite sculpture, only far better, being wholly of flesh, and entirely—mine.”

“Yes, utterly yours.”

He now stopped at the chamber door, managing to open it with his hands though he would not put her down. Still smiling as they entered the room, he kissed her again. And then closed the bedchamber door behind them.

Back at Warwickdon, the guests were trying to make the best of the situation. After they had all had time to visit their assigned bedchambers and change out of their morning or afternoon dress, they were assembled in the drawing room. True to her word, the cook at Aspindon had sent over a feast. It was the meal she would have served had the guests remained at the estate.

Beatrice's gowns were feeling tight so she arrived for the meal determined not to make a spectacle of herself by eating too much. The food was so good at Aspindon! Each new course with dishes more delectable than the last. She had seen such artful and imaginative ways of dressing a turbot or goose, or pheasant, since her arrival to the house than she would ever have believed existed. One of her goals, in fact, was to go down to the kitchens and secretly observe the chef as he prepared his exquisite culinary creations. How interesting and unusual it would be!

Mr. Barton had called just before the meal, and so he joined the table with the rest. Unruffled, Mr. O'Brien recalled that they were almost neighbours, though residing in different parishes. It struck him forcefully that in the eyes of the world, he seemed to have accomplished an amazing feat these past few days: Namely, securing a generous living while at the same time increasing his acquaintance and standing among the gentry. The Mornays in fact were
good ton
, friends of the Regent, welcome in the highest circles of society! He had never been on an equal footing, and here he was with their relations lining his table.

Somehow it was not the triumph he might have considered it years earlier. He ran his gaze over each of his guests, wondering over the state of their souls. This was his real business in the world; the reason he had taken Holy Orders, and that which he meant to carry out. The business of tending to eternal souls. To many people, it was a business that ought to be reserved for the Church or chapel. Religion was too controversial to be acceptable for polite conversation. But here was an opportunity like no other; Mr. O'Brien had these people in his house, at his disposal, so to speak. A captive audience.

He must find a way to influence their religious sensibilities. He had no desire to offend, but if offense came from such a duty, so be it. However, in the interest of treading lightly for the sake of the nonreligious, he had begun the meal with a short prayer: “Heavenly Father, for this food we Thee thank; for this day, we Thee bless; for our lives, we Thee entreat; and for our usefulness to Thy kingdom, we Thee pray. Amen.”

In no time, Mr. Barton regaled Miss Forsythe with London
on-dits
while her mother and Mrs. Royleforst listened. He seemed to have endless stories of London, which amused Miss Forsythe enough so that she was laughing merrily from time to time. In between her laughter, however, she reverted shortly to a look of discomfort. No one could quite forget that they were here at Warwickdon on account of the terrible possibility of Mrs. Mornay falling ill.

“I beg your pardon,” Mr. O'Brien said, getting everyone's attention. “I will be conducting prayers for the Mornay family, and the Tallers (their tenants, with the fever). I hope I may expect all my guests to join me. In the drawing room, at around nine. Does that suit?” He looked around.

“Capital, sir!” cried Mrs. Forsythe. “I am obliged to you.”