The Country House Courtship (48 page)

“For you, Miss.” The manservant at the Manor House held out a salver upon which a letter lay, and Miss Barton took it, wonderingly. Who, if not Lord Horatio, would be writing to her?

“My word!” she exclaimed, after opening it. “It's from the Countess of Weverly! I wonder that she even knows who I am!” Anne's black hair was curled up around her ears, and she had on a gilt headband that further emphasized the blackness of her locks.

Lord Horatio, who had slept in a guest bedchamber, gave her a pointed look, and she knew at once that something was afoot. “What do you know of this?” she asked, beginning to smile.

“I know only that you shall be invited to one of her parties, and that her ladyship will let it out that you are some sort of heiress.”

Miss Barton frowned. “An heiress! But that is a falsehood! Explain this to me, my lord!”

“Call me Horatio, darling.”

“Yes, I shall. Only please explain your meaning in this, first, sir!”

He thought for a moment. “Anne—I'm going to marry you, no matter what. You know that.”

She now grew alarmed. “Yes?”

“But if my mother hears her ladyship speak well of you, my parents will cease to frown upon our union. With their blessing, things will go far better for us, for the rest of our lives. Is it not worth acquiring?”

“Not in this way!
Horatio!
”

He had to smile simply because she had used his name. “There is no other way to accomplish the thing speedily; and since we must wed without further delay, it must answer.” He merely glanced down at the region of her belly for her to understand him.

“When the child comes, your parents will know.”

“They will be eager to hide the fact, and they will adore having a grandchild! God knows when my brother and his wife will supply one. Katherine seems to be barren.”

“I am sorry for her.”

He smiled at her. “Do not be. If they have no son, and we do, he will be next in line for the title.”

She feigned astonishment. “You are avaricious, sir!”

He laughed. “No! Only practical! It's the law, but I didn't write it!”

In the next room, the sound of their voices woke Mr. Barton. He felt at odds, and remembered the news about Mrs. Mornay being in a crisis, and this only worsened his mood. He wanted to marry into the family, but if that lady died, his hopes were dashed. He decided his safest course was to distance himself from Miss Forsythe for the time being. She was no use to him at all if her sister was to die. He'd make a trip to London; he'd been stuck in the country for too long as it was. Anne was getting properly married now, and he no longer needed to hide her from anyone. And Mornay—that man was devilish tricky about his plans. The sad demise of Ariana Mornay loomed before him like a spectre, and even the allure of Miss Beatrice Forsythe could not hold him in Middlesex a day longer.

He would compose a short message to explain his absence at the vicarage. He would say that he'd been called away on “business.” He laughed to himself. Business—it was convenient to fall upon, if nothing else! With a slow gait caused by drinking too much the prior evening, and waking up in an uncomfortable spot—on the floor—he made his way toward the others in the morning room.

“Speaking of our being wed,” Anne was saying when he entered, “when shall we? Have you settled it with Mr. O'Brien?”

“No. Why do we not go to the vicarage right now and do so? I cannot bear waiting a day longer to call you ‘Lady Horatio'!”

At that moment a sound in the doorway made them both look up in surprise. Mr. Barton was standing there, rather disheveled, rubbing his head. “Did I hear you mention going to the vicarage?”

“Yes, Tristan! His lordship wants us to be married directly!” While he ingested that thought, she added, “I am surprised to see you up and about.” When he was in his cups, he did not usually awake before noon or later.

“I heard your laughing from the parlour,” he grumbled. “If a man would sleep, he must have silence.”

“If a man would have silence, he must sleep in his bedchamber,” returned Lord Horatio. He and Anne exchanged little smiles while Tristan merely scowled. “We'll need a witness,” he said, “so do come along.”

Mr. Barton stopped and thought about this for a moment. He nodded. “Very well, then,” and left to get dressed.

Lord Horatio looked at Anne. “Do you need to change?” he asked, noticing she was in a morning dress.

Anne held out one arm, and showed him that, cleverly hidden beneath a lace frill which served as a hem for the puffed shoulders of her gown, was a placket where the sleeves were attached. They could be unattached. Smiling, he did the unbuttoning, first for one sleeve, then the other.

“Voila!” she said, folding the fabric carefully. “I have a day dress.”

“Astonishing,” he said.

“And economical too,” she added.

Now they had only to wait for Tristan.

Before Beatrice exited the carriage when it pulled up outside her sister's estate, she turned to Mr. O'Brien, hoping that she was not about to dig herself in deeper in misunderstanding than what already existed, in her mind, between them.

“Did you take note of Mr. Barton's hasty exit last night?” She knew he had; but desired to know his thoughts about it. Besides, she wanted to somehow raise the subject of Mr. Barton so that she could let Mr. O'Brien know of a certainty that Beatrice no longer wished to be courted by him.

He looked at her in surprise a moment. “I did, of course.”

Beatrice was studying the upholstery of the Mornays' fine coach. “May I ask, what you made of it, sir?”

Mr. O'Brien cleared his throat. Here he was again, in a dashed uncomfortable spot. But his honest opinion, he felt, was true enough to be shared. To withhold it from any young woman seeking counsel could not be right. “I think we must assume that he is lacking in his religion, Miss Forsythe.” He tried to say it as gently as possible; he knew she had hopes of the man.

Her eyes flew to his.

“That has been my suspicion, exactly!” She looked up at him earnestly, searching his eyes for a sign that Mr. O'Brien just might,
might
have some feelings upon the subject; some feelings for her. She saw nothing to give her that assurance. In response, she had to try to dig deeper.

“Do you consider Mr. Barton to be a man of good character?”

He stared at her. He was perplexed that she should be asking his opinion. When he had no right, no authority over her, no reason to involve himself in her decisions… Finally, he said, “Miss Forsythe, if you have doubts regarding the man, again I can only advise you to speak of them to Mr. Mornay. Allow him to decide if the man is worthy or not.”

Her eyes widened. “Do you think Mr. Mornay is a good judge of character?”

He let out a breath of amusement. “I should say so! I think he is an excellent judge.”

When she made no answer, he added, “Does he know anything of Mr. Barton's intentions toward you? Or of your…er…hopes regarding him?”

This made her turn her head sharply and look up at him again. “My hopes? At this moment I do not know what to think or feel regarding the man! He fled from me the moment he understood that my sister was seriously ill! He failed to offer rooms in his house for anyone, though he had available space. He fails to show the concern that any friend should offer in such a situation. I do not know if I have any hopes of him at all.”

His brow furrowed. “I took it to understand that you desired his courtship.”

She met his gaze. “I—I did. I
thought
I did.” She took in a deep breath. “I found him agreeable and amusing; I thought he was an honourable gentleman; but I have since seen things in his character and nature that give me pause.”

“I see.” He was studying her with a very perplexed look, as if he did not see, not at all. “I think you are wise to think through such a step. You are young and have plenty of life ahead of you. Do not settle yourself upon a man who does not deserve you.”

“May I ask you?” she was emboldened to say, “if, in your opinion, Mr. Barton deserves me?” It was an awkward question, and only Beatrice's desire to ascertain whether or not Mr. O'Brien had any feelings at all for her, made her ask it.

Mr. O'Brien laid his head back against the cushion. What could he say? Mr. Barton was a social superior. “I know that he has the means to support you in style, which I have understood as being of importance to you. He appears to be a gentleman; and I can say nothing against his actions until I have understood them.” He was taking care to be absolutely fair to the man, and he felt unable to seize the opportunity to put himself forward. It would be wrong of him to do so. “I do not take him for a man of religion, and that
is
cause for concern; but only you can decide how great a concern that will be, Miss Forsythe.”

This was plainly not the answer she had hoped for, and she set her mouth into a small frown.

The carriage stopped, and with a quick “Good day!” she began to step out without giving him or any servant time to put down the steps. She opened the door, and would have immediately fallen to the ground had not Mr. O'Brien grasped her around the waist.

“You will injure yourself!” he said, surprised.

Beatrice stood back and turned to look at him. She saw nothing of reproof in his eyes; nothing of reproach; only honest concern.

“Do you
never
run out of patience?” she asked, as though it was a vexing thing. The steps had been let down by the butler/coachman, and now Beatrice stomped off, leaving him blinking at her for a second, but he hurried to catch up.

“Were you not going to return to the vicarage and retrieve my things?” she asked, turning to him in impatience. “If you come in with me, you may not be able to return to your home.”

“I will need to bring a report back to your mother. If I return without learning of your sister's condition, she'll want to throw me in the stocks, I imagine.”

It was meant as a small joke, but Beatrice was too piqued to respond at all. Mr. O'Brien had the distinct impression that he had somehow transgressed, but he hadn't a clue as to how. He was doing his honest best to be a friend to Beatrice, to give her his counsel, and without burdening her with a jot or tittle of his own admiration for her. He was being as generous with himself as he possibly could be; her reaction did not make sense to him.

The last thing she had asked was if Mr. Barton deserved her. He wished he could have shouted! He would have said, “Of course Mr. Barton does not deserve you! You deserve a man of God, who will honour you as a co-heir of salvation! You deserve a man who is thrilled by the look of your green, beautiful eyes, and the shine of your hair in the sun. You deserve someone who finds your temper exhilarating, and your strong emotions energizing! Like me. Like
me
!” But of course he could not so speak.

“Was my opinion of Mr. Barton not good enough to please you? Is that what vexes you?” he asked. She was about to turn the door handle when the door opened from the inside. Frederick stood, looking out at them with the peculiarly dour gaze of a butler. Ignoring him, Beatrice turned back to the curate.