The Country House Courtship (6 page)

M
r. O'Brien, having accepted that his fate was to appear before his old nemesis, the Paragon, did what he could to ready himself. He knew the “interview” would be a hopeless affair, but he was properly resigned to this. The Colonel's honour was at stake; his own honour demanded his acquiescence, and so he set himself to making his appearance in the best manner possible.

He went first to his mother and suffered the humiliation of enlisting her support in the form of funds. She was reluctant to help him in the scheme, feeling there was a preponderance of certain doom attached to the venture. But sons have their way of finagling help from their mothers, and soon Mr. O'Brien was in possession of enough money to call upon his tailor.

He had his overcoat relined and cleaned; he did the same for his boots and shoes, getting new heels and paying extra for the very best polish. He even bought a new waistcoat, and would have ventured a shirt as well, but needed enough money for the post chaise to get to Middlesex. He made very sure to keep enough for the return journey, as that, he knew, would not be far behind his arrival. During a routine hair trim, the barber somehow convinced him to sport the very latest fashion of a slight “whip” above his forehead. His hair was the perfect texture, he said; his face had just the right shape to pull it off without a hint of dandyism; and so when the curate left the shop, he had a new wave in his hair, and could hardly suppress a slight feeling of glee when two young ladies sent admiring glances in his direction as he returned to the family carriage.

With this little boost to his confidence, and a very good shave, he packed his clothing (particularly his whitest neckcloths—this was, after all, Mornay he was to see), kissed his mother goodbye, and set off on his doomed journey. Oddly enough, he felt almost optimistic. At first. But during the two-and-a-half hours of the drive, he had time to consider his past sins—the very reasons Mornay would never present the living to him. It had been years now since his humiliation and defeat at that man's hands; years since he had fallen in love with a woman, only to have her choose Mornay instead of him. He bore no ill-will toward her; indeed, his feeling at the present time for Miss Ariana Forsythe—er, Mrs. Mornay—was nought but benevolent. He wished her every happiness.

But he and Mr. Mornay had never seen eye to eye, and now, all this time later, the man had resurfaced in his affairs! Why had it happened this way? He'd thought the Mornays were behind him forever. Not that he'd done anything more dishonourable than giving way to a few weak impulses, stealing a kiss from Ariana when he ought not to have. It was a sin he'd repented of, received forgiveness from God for, and put decidedly in his past. But the name “Mornay” now brought it all back again, rushing across his mind like a soldier reliving some great battle. Only this was a battle of the heart—and one he'd lost.

He understood Ariana Mornay enough to know that he had nothing to fear at her hands; she would receive him kindly, whether she wished for him to have the living or not; but her husband? Why had he not written to the Colonel, telling of his abhorrence for Mr. O'Brien? Or, why had he not written directly, telling him privately what he really thought, and that he oughtn't to waste his time calling upon them at Aspindon? It would have saved him this pointless trip.

When the chaise stopped at an inn to pick up more passengers, O'Brien hired a fast-riding messenger and sent an urgent letter to Mr. Mornay. If he was to be turned away at the door, let him say so now, before he arrived. He hoped this would give Mr. Mornay the time he needed to send a message back. “Go home, O'Brien,” it would say. “You are not welcome here.” And go home he would, with relief. But that message had not come, and now the coach was well nigh the vicinity of Aspindon House. Mr. O'Brien sighed. He did not relish the next hour.

Unfortunately, without their knowing it, and just when Beatrice had tried out the name of “Mr. Frederick Frogglethorpe” aloud upon her tongue, the butler was at the door with a guest, and both men heard her pronouncement. Nigel had exited the room just as swiftly as he had run in (at Mrs. Perler's calling for him) and left the door open. Frederick, just raising his hand to knock, heard the words coming from the room. He stiffened, and grimaced. Why was he the brunt of a joke? He took a breath, and again went to knock—when Beatrice's voice again rang out: “I think he will bow timidly, with overarching propriety, and will offer you a great deal of flummery.” They all chuckled, and Miss Bluford, nodding fervently, agreed, “Yes, flummery—indeed, indeed! The richest sort! The smoothest going down! Quite the vicar!”

Now Mr. Frederick's eyes opened wide in comprehension, which turned to apprehension. They were not making fun of him; they were making fun of the man with him! Mr. Mornay had told him to expect the arrival of a curate. It did not take a man of brilliance to understand that the occupants of the room were jesting with regard to a churchman. He felt deuced uncomfortable, but there was nothing else for it, so he knocked and opened the door all the way, so that both men could enter.

“Begging your pardon!” he said, in a tone that was almost a scold, for he hoped to silence the room (and did); “Mr. Peter O'Brien!”

From his position near the mantel, for Mr. Mornay was casually leaning against it, he cracked the smallest smile at Freddy. The man had bottom.

Meanwhile, the effect of the butler's unmistakably demanding tone was that the room immediately fell into an immense silence. It was either that, or the name of O'Brien, or the realization that their “Mr. Frogglethorpe” had arrived, and that he was nothing to snivel at.

Mr. Mornay's eyes flew to his wife. He was curious, no sense denying it, as to how she would behave with her old admirer. Ariana recovered her astonishment first, and cried, with delight, “Mr. O'Brien! Upon my word! Do come in, sir!” To the servant she added, “Thank you, Frederick; send in the tea now.” The butler, with a mild look of reproval that he could not erase, bowed lightly and left the room.

Beatrice's eyes were round with surprise—nay—amazement. She remembered Mr. Peter O'Brien! She remembered him as a tall, kind young man who had indulged her when, at the age of twelve, she had promised to marry him, of all things! She was blushing lightly for having just mouthed the words “Mr. Frederick Frogglethorpe,” realizing that the man might well have heard her; and now her blush deepened at this memory. She despised blushing, however, and set to reasoning herself out of it.

It had all happened when Ariana's betrothal to Mr. Mornay was established five years earlier. Mr. O'Brien had maintained his hopes for her sister's affection right up to the wedding. But on that day when Ariana and Mr. Mornay had fallen into each other's arms—right there in Aunt Bentley's parlour (for Mrs. Bentley hadn't married Mr Pellham, yet, though she was Aunt Pellham now)—Beatrice had seen the forlorn expression on the young man, and felt terribly sorry for him.

He had been speaking with her father, and she had every reason, to her twelve-year-old mind, to think him a worthy gentleman. So she had said, when her father introduced her, “I'll marry you,” to the young man. The men had laughed, so she added, “But I shall, Papa, as soon as you give your leave!”

So, without his asking, and contrary to all propriety, Beatrice had proposed herself to be this man's wife! And now, five years later, here he was, standing before her.
What if he remembered? What would he think of her now?

In the past, he had gallantly treated her fancy for him with the air of a fond older brother. He had never teased or berated her, not even when she stayed with his family on Blandford Street in London, and assured them earnestly that she would marry Peter as soon as her papa gave leave. Just the thought of these memories sent a little extra colour into her cheeks, and she suddenly felt as though she was at the edge of her seat. Of all the people in the world whom she might have run into at her sister's house, this one man seemed the most unlikely—and yet here he was!

His gaze fell upon her. He had very blue and intelligent eyes; eyes that were unlikely to have forgotten her youthful
faux pas
—Beatrice quickly looked away. Why was she feeling the least bit flummoxed over this meeting? She'd only been a mere child, she reminded herself, when she had rashly promised to marry him. Nevertheless, it was mortifying. She could barely take in his dignified appearance—the handsome demeanour and good manners he was displaying—for fear he would take one look more at her and at once remember her rash promise! She hoped it was the sort of thing a gentleman would not dream of mentioning.

Her thoughts were flitting rapidly through her head while Mr. O'Brien spoke to Ariana and her husband. It was difficult to comprehend that she was truly seeing Mr. Peter O'Brien again! He had always been handsome, in her memory, but seeing him now was like a jolt. Perhaps it was an air of maturity he had gained, more than an alteration in his features; but whatever the cause, he looked exceedingly fine. If it were not for the dread which had come upon her, she would be proud of him, and pleased to make this reacquaintance.

His twin-tailed black jacket was well fitted, and just hinted at the latest fashion with a little bulge in the upper sleeves, and wide tailored cuffs at the wrists. His cravat was more voluminous than those her brother-in-law favored, but not unbecoming; a fine embroidered yellow waistcoat peeked out of his jacket, and breeches with stockings and black shoes brought the eye to the floor. A cane, and hat in one hand, finished the ensemble. His hair was neatly fashioned into a whip, and it gave him a sort of dash that she did not remember in him. And—wait—he had used to have blond hair. It had grown into a deep brown, with just a few streaks of lighter strands here and there. How unusual, and yet the colour, she had to admit, suited him.

In short, he was as neat and fine a gentleman as Beatrice had seen, though she could not be sure if his polished look was due to superior tailoring, or if he had somehow grown into wearing his clothing with more aplomb. The dark colours suited a clergyman, and the hint of yellow from the waistcoat lightened his appearance so that there was no sense of severity in it. Beatrice reminded herself that if she could meet Mr. Mornay's dark eyes without a single flutter to her heart, surely, the presence of a mere curate would do no worse.

Ariana, meanwhile, was making introductions. When it came to Beatrice's turn, she said, “Beatrice, you recall Mr. O'Brien; my sister, Miss Forsythe, sir.” Mr. O'Brien had been looking with polite curiosity at Beatrice, but at Ariana's words he seemed to open his eyes wider somehow.

“My dear Miss Forsythe!” He recognized her. His tone was warm but not overdone.

“Has she not altered a great deal in her appearance since last you met?” Ariana was smiling proudly. Mr. O'Brien raised his eyes while completing a bow, and exclaimed, in his soft-toned voice, “Altered, indeed! Grown up, I should say. What a pleasant surprise to see you.”

Beatrice replied, while impulsively thrusting out one hand, “Thank you, sir,” and met his eyes. A flash of deep blue was in them, and something more; was it amusement? She blushed deeper. He took her hand and held it lightly, and even bowed over it again, but did not raise it to his lips. (
To her relief! What on earth had made her offer her hand to him?
)

Ariana was smiling affectionately; Beatrice dared not look at her mother.

Now, when Mr. O'Brien had entered the room, it happened so that he came in facing the sofa where Beatrice and Mrs. Forsythe sat. His eyes fell upon Beatrice and inwardly he felt himself start; it was a pretty face somewhat like Ariana's, but not. She caught his gaze and hurriedly looked away. He had no time to think about it, but somewhere in his brain he knew it must be Miss Beatrice. The sight of her! She was a young woman, not the pretty child he remembered.

He had by now collected himself from the surprise. He'd been prepared to see Ariana Mornay but instead had spied a face that at once resembled hers, but was evidently not hers, and it had startled him. It was like seeing something that should be familiar, only it was also foreign. But now he was bowing to the real Mrs. Mornay, Ariana, who was reassuringly herself, lovely as ever; and then Mr. Mornay.

“Thank you for receiving me,” he said to him, still feeling very much on his guard.

Ariana noticed that Mr. O'Brien retained the soft-spoken earnestness she had always liked in him, but without the air of timidity that used to accompany it.