The Country House Courtship (45 page)

“I am greatly obliged to you, Mr. O'Brien,” she said, through her happy tears. “Greatly obliged!” Mr. O'Brien merely nodded kindly in acknowledgment. She turned to Mrs. Forsythe and added, “And to you!” But Ariana's mother could scarcely pay heed.

“My
daugh-ter
!” she cried. Her voice was so loud that everyone's attention flew to her. “We must pray for Ariana! She has reached a crisis! Time is of the essence!”

“Of course!” said Mr. O'Brien. Mrs. Forsythe stood up, and then, with a look around as if she were daring anyone to cavil, she dropped to her knees by the table and began to pray silently. Beatrice quickly stood and went and joined her. Miss Barton, tugging lightly onto Horatio's sleeve, motioned for him to come, and they, too, slowly took places around the table. It was exceedingly unusual, his lordship thought, but somehow it did not feel improper.

Mr. O'Brien had opened his Bible, and now he came and got to his knees near the others. There was room for one more, and he looked at Mr. Barton expectantly. Mr. Barton grudgingly moved toward him, but at the last minute he stopped, and without another word, turned and left the room. In a minute, they heard the noise of the front door. He had left the house. In another minute, Mrs. Persimmon, who had cleaned up the cake that Miss Barton had dropped, returned, and she came and fell to her knees, making the little circle of people around the table complete.

Mr. O'Brien found a page in his Bible, and then said, “We will agree in prayer tonight for the safety and recovery of Mrs. Mornay.” Beatrice had tears in her eyes, and she clung to his words as great reassurance. He saw the look on her face, a look of deep distress, and he said, looking directly at her, “
If two of you shall agree on earth as touching any thing that they shall ask, it shall be done for them of my Father which is in heaven.
This
is
the Word of our Lord.”

“
Amen
.” The others spoke in unison.

He nodded at her very earnestly. It was as though she could hear his voice again, saying, “You must trust God's faithfulness!” And, “Do not borrow trouble.” Ariana might have reached a crisis, but she had not died, yet. There was still hope. And here she was in a prayer circle, agreeing on the Word of God about her sister's recovery. “
It shall be done for them of my Father which is in heaven
.” She would dare to believe it.

Mr. O'Brien said, “And now, each of us must pray from the bottom of our hearts for Mrs. Mornay. From the bottom of your hearts!” He looked about at the circle of faces. “Who will agree with me?”

“I will,” said Beatrice. He nodded.

“I shall also,” said Mrs. Forsythe. Mrs. Royleforst, who was still upon a sofa (for she was a large woman and lame in one leg) said, “I do agree, sir.”

“And I!” put in little Miss Bluford.

Miss Barton and Lord Horatio looked at each other askance. Miss Barton shrugged. This night had been an answer to every prayer that she had uttered of late, and so she said, “We also, sir.”

“We are all in agreement, then!” said a satisfied Mrs. Persimmon.

Mr. O'Brien said, “Please, let us take hands with one another.” Obediently, with teary smiles on some—this was so peculiar!—they did so. Horatio was happy to have a reason to take Miss Barton's hand, most affectionately; and then the curate led the little gathering in a prayer for Ariana that was at once both heartfelt and encouraging. He prayed for healing and health; for a speedy recovery; for the continued health and prosperity of the Mornay household and all of its tenants. And finally, for each one in the room there tonight. “We are gathered in Your name, Lord, and in Your name we pray. Amen.” When Beatrice looked up, his tall head was still bowed in a reverential attitude, and she felt the most ardent admiration for him. How wonderful that he had appeared when he did!

What would they have done if Mr. O'Brien had not generously opened his new house to them? What if they had been scattered, without news of Ariana? And what if he had not been there to lead them in prayer? To be the beacon of strength in this time of sorrow? How foolish she had been, to speak to him in the carriage, yesterday! Why had she told him of Mr. Barton? Beatrice was now certain that Mr. Barton, despite his wealth, or amiability, or social connexions, could never make her happy. Nor could she please him. How could her grasp of both men have changed so substantially in one day? But it had!

His head came up and he glanced at her. Quickly she averted her eyes. How embarrassing!

Mrs. Forsythe began thanking him; Beatrice quietly asked the housekeeper for a night candle to find her way to her bedchamber. There was much in her heart to consider.

M
r. Barton left the vicarage in disgust. That Lord Horatio had showed up to claim his sister's hand should have thrown him into the best of spirits; it was the very thing he had never for a moment believed was possible, but had happened. Lord Horatio had honourable intentions and meant to marry Anne! It was indeed one weight lifted from his shoulders. He no longer had to worry about social disgrace for his sister, or that his name would be tainted as a result. Of course, some people were bound to whisper when the child came early…but that was nothing at the moment.

The thing that sent him from the house in disgust was the “prayer meeting.” He knew O'Brien was an Anglican curate, but dashed if he wasn't acting like a Methodist! Or worse, a Dissenter! And the others had gone right along with him as if it wasn't the least unusual thing in the world. Why, for all he knew, it might have been heresy! Weren't people supposed to pray in church? He knew it did not look well in Beatrice's eyes, but he could not bring himself to kneel at the table. It was impossible.

Worst of all, the reason behind the impromptu prayer gathering was also highly irksome. If Mrs. Mornay was at a crisis, then Mrs. Mornay might be deathly ill. She could die. And if she died, there was no longer anything to tie Miss Forsythe to the Paragon. Knowing Mornay, he'd have nothing to do with the family; he'd no doubt retreat into his old, miserable, caustic nature and become a recluse—or a terror. Either way, there would be no advantage for him in marrying Beatrice Forsythe.

He felt sorry about it. He liked Miss Forsythe. She was a good-natured girl, prone to enjoy a laugh, and pretty to boot. But when she'd been family to the Paragon, he liked her better. Or if she'd had her own fortune, say, ten thousand pounds or so, he'd have found her irresistible. Without either one, he was afraid he could not afford her—not unless he was prepared to give up his nights at the clubs, which he was not.

When he reached the Manor, he was still deliberating on what his next move would be. Mornay was still in quarantine and there wasn't a deuced thing for him to do in Middlesex. He was itching to return to London. Dash it, but this country life was deadly dull! He was sorely tempted to drive himself back to the city that very night. But highwaymen would be a threat; and he didn't relish going it alone.

In the end, he had a drink and just lost himself in thought before the fire. When Anne came home much later, escorted by his lordship, she was hoping to question her brother, to understand what had caused his earlier disappearance, but not much information was to be had from Mr. Barton by that time.

He was asleep, spread-eagled, on the floor in front of the fire, an empty wine bottle beside him. He was oblivious to the most ardent shaking and to all efforts to make him stir.

When Agatha and Randolph Pellham, or “Aunt and Uncle Pellham,” received a letter from Mrs. Forsythe telling them about Ariana taking ill, there was only one thing to do. They must leave their nest and get Mrs. Pellham to her niece directly. Mrs. Pellham detested leaving her house. She detested travel of any sort. But she had a special fondness for Ariana. It was so strong a fondness that it was stronger than her dislike of travel or leaving home; and so fly to her niece she must.

Her decision, once made, had to be executed with the utmost haste. She therefore had her servants in such a flurry of activity and tasks as would make the most seasoned housekeeper quake. And she liked to check on it all: She oversaw the packing of their trunks, the closing up of the house, the readying of their coach and four, and the preparation of a basket of victuals to take for the journey. Bricks were heated, woolen stockings donned, hats and coats and waistcoats and jewellery (Mrs. Pellham never went anywhere without her jewellery), all packed up and stowed in the boot of the coach. Carriage blankets were ready, and even a small vial of brandy—in case the cold became too ruinous to Mr. Pellham's constitution.

When all was stowed and ready to go, the coachman sat hunched atop the vehicle, clad in a heavy, many-caped coat and ponderous hat, so that his face could not be seen. He knew his orders: He was to go with all possible speed and haste to Aspindon of Middlesex. Beside him sat Haines, equally prepared for the cold—and for hoodlums. He had learned to use a weapon since the unfortunate events of the past when Lord Wingate had abducted his mistress at point of pistol; he now prided himself on his accuracy, and Mrs. Pellham considered him indispensable to her comfort when travelling.

In addition to her dislike of travel, Mrs. Pellham had an aversion to sickbeds. Thus her journey, and her object, were rather extraordinary. In the back of her mind, however, was her hope not only to be of assistance to her beautiful (though very particular) niece, but to see the children again. She adored her great-nephew Nigel, and had not yet met Miranda. There was no question, therefore, that she would have to go to them. And where she went, of course, Randolph went also.

She brought her little leather-bound
Book of Common Prayer
for the journey, and she held it within her gloved hands for most of the ride. Even if she didn't open it, the sight of the worn black leather tome in her possession was enough to reassure her.

To this day, the memory of the Season five years earlier when Mrs. Pellham (she'd been Mrs. Bentley then) had sponsored Miss Ariana Forsythe in London was one of the highlights of her life; an
annus mirabilis
, a miraculous year, when Mrs. Pellham had been welcome in the finest drawing rooms of the aristocracy; when Ariana had done the impossible and snagged the famous Mr. Mornay for a husband! And she, Mrs. Bentley, a widow for well-nigh ten years, had finally agreed to marry Mr. Randolph Pellham, her dearest and most loyal companion. They had been happily together since.

This was why she moved with such haste, and ordered her coachman to make good time. The mercy of it was that the Pellhams were at their London townhouse when they heard the news, instead of their country estate. Mrs. Pellham always left the country for town before March, well before the Season started, to ensure the best seamstresses were at her disposal. Thank goodness, for that reason only, they could reach Aspindon in less than three hours; had they been home in the Cotswolds, it would have been an overnight drive, at the least.

“My dear Mr. Pellham,” said the lady, when they were both comfortably seated among a canopy of blankets and pillows and had heated bricks beneath their feet.

“Yes, my dear Mrs. P?”

“I feel that we ought to pray for Ariana. I must confess, Randolph, to having a most unnerving and unnatural feeling of dread concerning her.”

“Mrs. P, you must not distress yourself so; allow me to read from the prayer book, and you, rest your head upon me, here, with this pillow—”and he moved a small travelling pillow so that she could lean her head comfortably upon it, which in turn, rested upon his left arm—“and I shall begin. I was about to read the Collect, myself, you know.”