The Country House Courtship (52 page)

She took his little chin in her hand and made him look up at her. “Today you will stay for tea with the grown-ups! Right in this room too!”

“Tea! Huzzah! An—an—biscuits?” he asked, his dark black eyes large in his face. Ariana smiled; Nigel's eyes were so like his father's.

“Of course!” She nodded to the servants, who left to fetch the tea tray. Nigel had suddenly desired to climb into her lap, however, and so she gave up the baby to Mrs. Perler. Nigel was studying her, and he put his little hands on each side of her face. “You look different, Mama.”

“Mama was ill; but I am better, now.”

“I'm glad you are better, Mama!”

The tray was brought in with a fresh tea service, and plates of biscuits, scones, and slices of seed cake. Mr. Mornay returned to the room as well.

“Papa!” shouted Nigel. He pulled his hand free from his mother's and charged at his father like a little bull. Phillip was already smiling and received the boy into his arms only to lift him, upside down, and deposit him upon his shoulders, holding tightly to his little chubby legs. The boy's papa was wearing his shirt and waistcoat, but no outer garment, for he had anticipated his son's antics. Ariana settled Miranda once again upon her lap, watching her husband and son with a smile. Nigel's shrieks of delight were blithely ignored by the baby, who snuggled warmly against her mother.

Phillip glanced over from time to time, but he continued playing with his son, getting on his knees and taking the child about on his back. Ariana watched adoringly. Who would have known—not even she—that Mr. Mornay could be so playful and unrestrained with his offspring? It was beautiful to behold, and at times she wasn't sure who was having more fun, the child, or the father. However, as soon as Nigel was removed from a room, her husband reverted to his usual, more sedate nature. She still marveled upon it.

The wet nurse appeared. “I beg your pardon, ma'am,” she said with a curtsey; the playing on the floor stopped while Phillip paused to hear what was said. “I believe it's time for the baby to be fed.”

“Oh.” Ariana paused, sorrow flooding her heart suddenly because she could no longer perform that office. But she lifted up the child, saying, “Of course; thank you, Mrs. Dennison.”

At that point, as if aware of the sudden separation from her mother, the baby awoke with a shudder, and let out a muffled cry; then, a louder one. Mrs. Dennison took her with a look of urgency, and disappeared with the crying child from the room, moving determinedly and with rapid strides.

“My sister has to eat? My sister is hungry?” asked Nigel.

“That's right, darling.”

“But, Mama, your 'sposed to feed her!”

She smiled weakly. “Mama cannot feed her any longer, but she will be fed, very well, I assure you, by Mrs. Dennison.”

“Do you like my men, Papa?” asked Nigel eagerly.

“I do, sir!” he replied, but he got to his feet and started smoothing down his clothing.

Nigel suddenly realized that treats were available and dropped the little men like they had the plague and hurried over to the table. Molly helped him fill a small plate with foodstuffs.

Mr. Mornay sat beside his wife. “I have sent word to O'Brien to see me. Your sister is anxious to settle the matter of her future—though I cannot understand why,” he added, in jest.

“Excellent,” she replied. “And you will now grant the living at Glendover to him?”

“If he isn't so pigeon-headed as to refuse it.”

“Phillip—you are to be brothers now. You must speak well of him henceforward.”

Mr. Mornay made a small sound of irritation in his throat. “Must you remind me?”

W
hen will you speak to Mr. O'Brien?” Ariana asked Phillip. “To tell him that we have decided his fate?” She continued in a droll tone: “He must marry a delightful girl, become a vicar for the first time, reside at Glendover, which is finer and more spacious than even Warwickdon—and live happily ever after, I daresay!” She was smiling at her husband, but a little worry came over her, creasing her brow.

“What, now?”

“If you insist upon the wedding, will Beatrice ever feel he did not desire it? He has made no declarations to her, I think.”

He put his head back and frowned at her. “Do not say you are not content with a forced wedding! It is precisely what you hoped for! And we have every right to insist upon it;
and
, Beatrice is in love with the man! What could be more propitious?”

“If he proposed to her without any onus from us. So that she may never have cause to doubt him.”

He smiled down at her, now, amused. “I should say you are quite recovered, are you not? Back to scheming, already.”

“Only for the happiness of my dear and cherished sister!”

“And what do you think I can do for her happiness that I have not already done?”

“We must put them alone together again, so that Mr. O'Brien can speak for himself, under no duress, and from his heart.”

He looked doubtful. “Who is to say with all the time alone in the world, he will speak for her?”

“He must! I believe he will!” she said, as if there could be no doubt about it.

“Perhaps you can arrange it,” he said. “I believe I have had my fill of the matter.”

“Very well,” she said. “Only, you must give me your word not to interfere.”

“Done.”

“Thank you, darling!” She settled into his arms and gave him a welcome kiss of gratitude.

Mr. Barton knew that he would have to act quickly. He went by the vicarage first, and found only Mr. O'Brien there. All of his guests, the clergyman told him, had returned to Aspindon only hours earlier.

“Then I must call there,” he said, with a look that was faintly challenging.

“By all means,” said the cleric. But he had a second thought. “I believe I'll do the same. I have yet to see Mrs. Mornay since her recovery.” He paused. “I have an equipage—it comes with the vicarage—but Mr. Hargrove took his horses, and I have yet to purchase new ones. Would you mind terribly if I came along with you?”

Mr. Barton did mind; but what could he say?

Beatrice was feeling happy. Her sister was recovering; the rest of the family had not fallen ill; and now she was to marry Mr. O'Brien! It filled her heart with elation just to think upon it! Yet at the back of her mind was a niggling little doubt. What if Mr. O'Brien did not wish to marry her? What if his thoughts were entirely wide of that mark?

She came upon Mr. Mornay in the corridor while she was en route to the drawing room to sit with Ariana.

“Mr. Mornay, have you written yet to Mr. O'Brien…regarding the topic we spoke of earlier?”

Her delicacy referring to the wedding amused him, but he merely said, “No.”

“May I ask you to hold off, sir, for the smallest time? Since we have waited this long already, and no harm has come of it—I should like to see if Mr. O'Brien might himself have…that is, if he may wish to…” And here her voice fell away. She was embarrassed to speak of this!

“I understand you completely,” he said.

Beatrice was surprised, but relieved. “
Do
you!”

“It was Ariana's thought exactly. To give him opportunity to declare himself, is that it?”

“Yes, precisely!”

“It isn't as if I have to worry about him disappearing over the horizon, you know. He's staying put. I have no problem with giving him an opportunity to speak to you himself.”

She clasped her hands together. She could almost have given the man a kiss upon the cheek. And then, the next thing she knew, she had done it! She kissed Mr. Mornay upon the cheek!

“Thank you!” she cried, and then took off down the corridor. She stopped after only a few feet, turned, and said, again, still clasping her hands, “Thank you!” He was left looking after her, and he shook his head, but he had to smile. The girl was desperately in love.

Mr. Barton and Mr. O'Brien spoke little during the drive to Aspindon. The first man was thinking that all he needed was a good few minutes alone with Beatrice and he could settle the situation in his favour. All he had to do was persuade Miss Forsythe that she was ready for marriage, and that he was her best hope for the sort of union she desired. He was good at being persuasive, he felt.

Mr. O'Brien had the unmistakable sensation that something was afoot with the man beside him, and he knew only too well, he was sure, what it was about. Barton had very likely made an offer and was en route to find out his fate. Mr. O'Brien had a sinking heart, therefore, and yet he itched to reach the house, to pay his respects to Ariana, and then to see Miss Forsythe. The thing was, it still plagued his mind, the words she had said upon their last meeting. What had she meant when she said that his opinion of Barton had been far too good? And, what on earth was behind her calling him “the most unfeeling man in the world”?

There was a little voice in his head trying to tell him that it meant she cared for
him
, Mr. O'Brien. But how could that be? She had made it clear what her expectations were, only too well! And he had little to offer her, if compared to Barton's wealth. Which was, of course, what she would do. Here Mr. O'Brien had come into his own, but it wasn't good enough for her. Why, why had his life once again crossed paths with the Mornays, with the Forsythes? But even as he thought it, he was extremely grateful that it had. Not because of Warwickdon, either, or at least, not only because of it. But because he adored Miss Forsythe. He felt rather tragical about it; He was in love and unable to do a blessed thing about it!