The Country House Courtship (49 page)

“Not good enough? It was far
too
good, if you must know! You are the most uncaring man in the world!” And with that, she started crying, and entered the house. Frederick waited for Mr. O'Brien to decide whether he would enter too. The Curate stood there for a moment feeling utterly perplexed, looking after Miss Forsythe with near shock on his face. Remembering himself, he asked, “Is there news of Mrs. Mornay?”

“Mrs. Mornay continues as she was, sir.” The servant's eyes revealed that he knew somewhat more. “Mrs. Pellham has come to tend to her, however. It gives us all hope.”

The clergyman nodded. “Pray for her, Frederick. Pray very hard!”

“I have, sir. I will again.” Before he shut the door, as Mr. O'Brien turned to go, he added, “Thank you, sir.”

Back at the vicarage, Mrs. Persimmon brought the Bartons and Lord Horatio into the drawing room, where only Mrs. Forsythe was nervously working on a piece of needlework.

No one seemed to know where Mr. O'Brien had got to, and when it was discovered that Beatrice was also gone, and the carriage, Mrs. Forsythe guessed aloud that they were inquiring about Ariana's health. She was poking her needle into the canvas rather feelingly; Miss Barton felt too shy to mention their errand—that they were come to be married. She felt badly about Mrs. Mornay herself.

Mr. Barton was standing looking out the window. He had come to witness the marriage for his sister, but he had nothing to say to either Mrs. Forsythe, or Beatrice, really, until he knew where things stood with Mrs. Mornay. If she recovered, he would pursue the alliance with Beatrice as before; if she did not, he was prepared to wash his hands of the whole business; admit his failure to the prince; give up the Manor House, and get back to his life in London. He had hoped to find himself in the prince's debt, to be celebrated at Carlton House or Brighton; but so be it. His life was not so bad just as it had been. This country living was what he could not abide!

He suddenly had a thought intrude upon his brain, however. If Mrs. Mornay did recover, and he wished to pursue Beatrice, would the curate be an obstacle? Both were gone from the house. That put them together somewhere. Dash it, he did not like it!

He turned to Mrs. Forsythe. “I understand that your family has long known our Mr. O'Brien, is that correct, ma'am?”

“Some of our family has long known him, sir. Particularly Mrs. Mornay.”

“Does he often take one of your daughters abroad with no chaperone?”

She eyed him with surprise. A sense of unease sniffed at her heels, and she replied, cautiously, “He is a trusted acquaintance, sir, if that is your question.”

“Tristan, mind your manners!” put in his sister.

He turned to her. “Does it not strike you as odd? They're being out together? Did they not once get lost upon the Aspindon grounds? Let us hope they have not agreed on another adventure of some sort today!”

“I am certain they have done no such thing, sir,” said Mrs. Forsythe, wondering at this sudden censure from the gentleman. She suddenly realized that Mr. Barton was speaking like a disappointed young man. Like a man who thought himself thwarted in love perhaps? She was not averse to the curate in any way, and if this time with her daughter might be conducive to a romance, fine. But she needed to tread carefully. It must not seem scandalous in any fashion. So she added, “My daughter knows that I will rest easier when I have heard of Mrs. Mornay's condition this morning. You can be assured that this was their object.”

“Of course,” he replied politely; except that his tone lacked an ounce of sincerity. “I beg your pardon.”

“All we can do now, is to wait,” said Mrs. Pellham. Phillip sat upon the bed beside his wife, holding her hand. He and Mrs. Pellham had already taken turns applying cold cloths to her head and body. A poultice of ice was upon her brow. Additionally, he had taken a wet cloth, wrapped it over some ice, and smoothed it over her face and neck and arms, even her chest. If the fever made it dry, he passed the cloth again. Nevertheless, through it all, Ariana was still, quiet, and limp.

Mr. Mornay released her hand, and went and stood before the casement. It was a typical winter day, not too sunny, but the silent landscape was now an unfeeling reminder of happier days. The bedchambers looked over the rear of the estate, and he could see the maze, and he thought suddenly of the day a young blond-headed woman had run into him at top speed; she was exceedingly pretty, but that he ignored; he always ignored women. Instead he proceeded to give her a set-down, and she had thoroughly surprised him by returning him one.

Her spirit, that was the first thing that attracted him to her. Looking over at her now, so pale and silent, and still hot with fever, was totally disheartening. If only this would pass, if the blasted fever would just leave her! A light knock at the door revealed Mr. Speckman, who was greeted with a blast of wintry cold air. The windows were now only open an inch or so; but the fire was out; his patient was exposed to the air, and the room was cold. His eyes opened in shock. “What the devil are you doing? Do you want to kill her?” He rushed over toward the window, but Mr. Mornay sprang to his feet and put himself in his path.

“You'll kill her, sir!” the doctor maintained. “I tell you, she'll not survive!”

“If you cannot give your approval, Mr. Speckman, I suggest you take yourself off.”

With a look of gravity, almost fear, the man eyed Mornay for a moment; recognized the air of assurance. His advice would no longer be followed. He went and collected his bag. His assistant, behind him, gathered more things, and the two of them left, giving only the slightest bows. At the doorway, the man stopped and turned around. “Her death will not be upon my shoulders.”

“True; not any longer!” cried Mrs. Pellham. He looked injured at that, but turned and was gone. In another moment, Beatrice came into the room. She had seen the doctor and his assistant in the corridor and thought the worst; that they were leaving due to failure! Her sister was lost! She burst into the room, stopped to glance at the scene, and then, with a great sob, threw herself at her sister's limp body.

“You'll hurt her,” cried Mrs. Pellham, sharply, trying to pull her off.

“What?” Beatrice blinked at her. “She isn't—? I saw the doctor leaving.”

“Oh, no, my dear! Your sister is alive!”

“Oh! Thank God!” She sat up, brushed a bit of ice from her gown, and turned and studied the form upon the bed. She met the gaze of Mr. Mornay, who nodded a greeting. She had nothing helpful to say to him, and so she turned her attention back to Ariana. She reached out her hand to smooth away a stray bit of hair, and felt Ariana's pale face. Curious, she touched the back of her neck, then her arms, and hands. Mr. Mornay saw her doing this, and he started over, an intense look upon his countenance.

“She isn't hot!” cried Beatrice.

Mrs. Pellham and Mr. Mornay at once both began to feel her skin in various places, and in a rapture of joy, Mrs. Pellham threw herself against him, into his arms, and they actually hugged. The two of them both loved Ariana, and if Mrs. Pellham had never expected to find herself embraced by the Paragon, she did not show it now. Beatrice was also overcome, and she put her arms about the two of them as best she could.

Mr. Pellham, meanwhile, had been warned by his wife to stay clear of the sickroom, but he, too, was quite fond of Ariana. Unable to help himself, he timidly opened the door, expecting to find a sad scene before him. When he saw the three in a circle of closeness, he thought the worst had occurred. He crept silently into the room, and, not wanting to disturb the mourners, took a glance at the lovely lady upon the bed. His eyes filled with tears. And then, suddenly, Ariana was looking up at him.

He blinked, thinking he was imagining it. But then she blinked.

“Upon my soul!' he cried, causing the others, who did not know of his presence, to jump apart in surprise.

“Randolph! You frightened me!” cried his wife.

“She's awake!” he said, in delighted response.

Mr. Mornay had just discovered this, and he fell to her side on his knees and took her into his arms. He was cradling her head against him, and he kissed the side of her face, and whispered, “Thank God! Thank God!”

The others looked at each other, and by silent motions agreed to leave the pair alone. In a few seconds they had gone, while Mr. Mornay held his wife, who was still too weak to talk or return his sentiments. He shut his eyes, knowing what was coming, but it was too late; a tear slid down his face. He had almost lost her, but she was back! She would recover! Thank God!

Mr. O'Brien, unfortunately, had the unhappy honour of delivering only bad news. The fever hadn't broken, yet, to his knowledge, and Ariana's danger had not passed. To say the atmosphere in the house was dampened would be an understatement.

Lord Horatio got the curate alone and said, “Look here; would it be improper, under the circumstances, to ask you to perform the ceremony for us?”

Mr. O'Brien said, “I think it is acceptable; one sad event does not mean there cannot be a happy one.” He pulled out his watch fob. “Is your bride ready?”

“Yes.” Lord Horatio smiled. “I am much obliged.” He shoved some banknotes into Mr. O'Brien's hand. “Please. Let me take care of this, now.”

“Thank you!” Mr. O'Brien, so used to officiating at ceremonies for the poorest of London, was not used to accepting paper notes, as those beneath his care could usually part with only a few shillings. There was no set amount for his services, and he had always been grateful for whatever came his way, but Lord Horatio had managed to eke some money out of the marquess as well as the family coach. And he was a generous man.

The pair were married in the parlour, and Mrs. Forsythe wished that Beatrice could have seen their curate in his surplice, his official robe and collar, Bible in hand, delivering the ceremony without hindrance.

She felt so proud of him, herself! Almost as though he was a son, which was strange because she had never been closely acquainted with Mr. O'Brien before. When they were pronounced man and wife, she managed to smile and give the new couple her sincerest best wishes—along with a few shillings for a new bonnet, she said—and tried to keep up her spirits while Mrs. Persimmon provided some refreshments afterward. It plagued that lady that she had not known in advance of the wedding, for she would have had a finer table, she said. But Miss Barton certainly did not care. She was all smiles, and had never looked lovelier.