The Country House Courtship (7 page)

Afterward, when he was seated, she said, “Sir, I am pleased to see you looking so well.”

“I could say quite the same thing for you, ma'am.” With a look to Mr. Mornay, he added, “Mr. Mornay evidently takes excellent care of you.”

While the maids brought in the tea service and began to distribute cups, Ariana looked at her husband with eyes filled with surprise. Turning back to her guest she said, “Well! I must say, you are the last person we expected to see today! We are just now waiting for other company. Do tell us what brings you to the neighbourhood.”

Everyone else in the room had assumed that Mr. O'Brien was no doubt come about the living. Ariana, so surprised at his unexpected appearance, did not think that her husband could have known about this and not told her.

Mr. O'Brien froze in his chair. He turned to Mornay. “What brings me? Did you not get a recommendation? From Colonel Sotheby?”

“Colonel Sotheby!” Ariana looked in amazement at him, and her look of confusion changed to one of understanding. “
You
are the man he recommended!
My word!
” She turned to her husband and gave him a look as much to say, “
Why did you not tell me
?”

He could always read her thoughts and said, “Have I displeased you? I thought you would enjoy the surprise.” He did not want to say that he had doubted the cleric would show.

“I am surprised, indeed.” This explanation satisfied her so that she was not vexed. She turned to their guest with a smile. “I beg your pardon! My husband did not say who we were to expect, only that a man was coming. So you have taken Holy Orders, then?”

“Yes. Three years back, actually.”

He was by turns addressed with a polite question from nearly everyone in the room, saving Beatrice and Miss Bluford. Beatrice was aware he was speaking, but hardly knew what of, for she was still reeling with the thought of her foolishness regarding this man, this one man out of all the curates in England! She had practically forgotten all about the incident; she certainly did not consider it binding in any way. But the fear nevertheless assaulted her mind forcibly:
What if he remembers? What if he makes mention of it?
She would die a thousand deaths in one moment, and then she would wish to murder him!

She tried to concentrate on the conversation, but found herself studying the churchman with curiosity. Beneath the stylish hair, his dark sideburns lay trim and neat. He was as fair-skinned as ever, but his features were somehow redolent, it seemed to Beatrice, of having suffered in life. This must be what accounted for the change in him. He had more presence than in the past. He did not wear a pained expression, but one such as a person who was accustomed to receiving bad news. It could perhaps be called a world-wizened look, as that of a man who knew of serious truths.

If he chanced to look toward her side of the room, Beatrice averted her gaze speedily. At one point she found Mr. Mornay eyeing her intently, which might have been disconcerting, except that she was too consumed by the fear of her childish promise being spoken of to properly take note of her brother-in-law. She rehearsed how Mr. O'Brien's eyes had met hers with polite curiosity, then surprised recognition. There was a flash of warmth in them—fondness as for a child—which would be exactly what he used to feel for her, for she
was
a child. That realization ought to have soothed her fears, but did not.

Her discomfort was increasing, the longer he sat and conversed. There was only one thing for it, to her mind. She made a decision: If Mr. O'Brien made the slightest reference to her childish fancy, she would feign ignorance. She would pretend
she
did not remember. It was not a wholly honest strategy, she knew, but her desperation to avoid embarrassment was severe enough to recommend her to the thought.

The tea cups were filled, and soon the room fell silent while everyone sipped tea or ate a sweet biscuit. Mr. Mornay had now opted to sit beside his wife. Miss Bluford scurried to get her mistress just the right assortment of biscuits that she liked; Beatrice ate hastily, hoping to fortify herself somehow with the victuals. Mr. O'Brien ate little, as though just to be polite.

Ariana asked, “Why do you not tell us about these past years? Where have you been situated? How has life treated you? Will this be your first vicarage? I can still hardly comprehend that
you
are to be our very own parson! I am—”

Mr. Mornay cleared his throat. When she looked to him, he said, “Mr. O'Brien is come only to explore the opportunity of this living—as we must consider whether he will fit
our
idea of what we must have in a vicar. We, both of us, must find it fitting, before anything is settled.”

Ariana thought she could tell by his tone and eye that he meant not to approve of the man. Surely that was his meaning in saying such a thing. She was disappointed, for it had seemed so providential and comfortable an arrangement, having Mr. O'Brien here to fill the vacancy. Only, of course, her husband would not want it to be so. He had never felt the slightest regard for Mr. O'Brien, and, to the contrary, had used to call him “that endless pest.” She would talk with him about the matter when they were alone; but for now, she turned a bright smile to the cleric and said, in her best hostess voice, “So—tell us what you have done since 1813.”

Mr. O'Brien also understood Mr. Mornay's meaning as boding nothing good for him. Why had the man allowed him to come? Why had he not prevented the whole affair by means of letters? He was irked that it was happening so. That he had been put to the trouble and expense of this call when it was going to end as he feared. He would soon be back at St. Pancras's parish, as though the whole interview, the travel, the expenses, had never occurred. But he had no time to dwell further upon the subject. Mrs. Mornay had addressed him with a question.

He answered as best he could, briefly detailing his short stint in the army—with a look of significance to Mr. Mornay that no one but the two men understood the meaning of. Mr. O'Brien explained how he had received a sum anonymously, of sufficient size to purchase a commission.

“Anonomously?” asked Mrs Royleforst with astonishment.

“Yes.” A short silence commenced, and so he continued his tale. How, during his first field assignment, he had injured his left arm during an action at Vera (in Spain, he explained) while defending the Bridge over the Bidassoa. It was a key structure and the French did lose it in the end; but 850 British soldiers were wounded or killed, and Mr. O'Brien was one of them. (He assured the room that over 1500 French casualties had been suffered, which was sufficient to underscore the English victory, and brought relief upon the faces of his audience.)

Since the bullet had narrowly missed a vital artery—which would have cost him his arm, if not his life, said the medical officer—Mr. O'Brien had been forced to consider his time on earth in a new way. His narrow escape from death made him reconsider his motives. He had joined the army to avoid dwelling on pain (spoken carefully and without a glance in Ariana's direction), and yet it had brought only more of it into his life. Besides his own injury, he had witnessed death and brutality on the battlefield as he hoped never to lay eyes upon in this world again.

“By contrast,” he finished, “even St. Pancras's parish seems tame in comparison.”

They all nodded.

“That is my parish, you know; I am curate there.”

“At St. Pancras?” Ariana asked. A flash of concern went through her. What a difficult place for a sensitive soul!

“Yes, ma'am. My injury was the thing that brought my attention back to God and the Church. It is my calling, and I had shirked it.” He related how he subsequently sold his commission, and in six months' time had taken Holy Orders. A year after that he accepted the curacy at St. Pancras and had been there ever since. At Christmas past, his old friend Colonel Sotheby had sought him out, seen his condition, and vowed to do something for him.

“What
was
your condition, Mr. O'Brien, if you do not mind telling us?” Mrs. Forsythe asked gently; and soon the whole room was rapt, listening to tales of Mr. O'Brien having to go to his family's home on Blandford Street to eat a proper meal, as he had given his own away; of finding the most sorrowful pieces of humanity upon the parsonage doorstep, only to have nothing to offer them but water and an old cheese. It was an underprivileged area, and many a sad sight had he seen on the streets; many a sad plight (he said with a deep sigh) that he was unable to do anything for, other than pray. Even now, at the memory of how helpless he had been to help others, his hands balled into fists, though he had nowhere to lay blame unless he desired to take on the structure of the Church, and the reason why so many curates were underprovided for.

When they asked for particular stories regarding St. Pancras, he said, “I fear I have said too much already.” To the chorus of objections which ensued, he added, “Were I to give you further details it would reflect poorly upon me as a gentleman; for ladies are not suited for such that I could tell, I assure you.”

“Oh, do, I
beseech
you, Mr. O'Brien!” Beatrice had been listening with such a piqued interest that she had wholly forgot her earlier embarrassment. She tried not to reveal the least surprise at her own outburst, however, and noted that he eyed her appreciatively. Mrs. Forsythe added, “We are not the swooning type of females, sir, and we understand the evils of this world well enough.” With a glance at Beatrice, she added, wryly, “I daresay the right tale from you may even prevail upon my daughter Miss Forsythe not to pine after a Season in London, yet.”

“Oh, Mama!” Beatrice said, blushing.
Why was she embarrassed? It was perfectly understandable that a young lady should desire a coming-out in London
. But she added, “I am not
pining!
”

“My opinion, sir,” said the mother, “is that Miss Forsythe is too young for that pleasure; she is but seventeen.” To Beatrice she added, “We'll speak more of it later.”

I wish you had not spoken of it at all
, Beatrice thought. No need to tell a stranger—well, he was virtually a stranger, for it had been so long—about her hopes or plans.

Ariana rescued her from further embarrassment by turning back to the newest guest. “Tell us more of your experiences, if you please.”

O'Brien sought the eye of Mr. Mornay, who nodded almost imperceptibly, but it was enough. Mr. O'Brien obliged them. He told of females who were mothers before they themselves had left girlhood; of men who were so lost upon that demon gin, that they spent every last shilling upon it, and slept in beds of garbage and filth. These same men had children and wives, but left them to fend for themselves. He told how children of three years of age and older were taught to pick pockets and nap handkerchiefs so their mothers could sell them to buy food. Abandoned women, mothers with no husbands, and children with no parents at all; infants left on the church doorsteps. It was appallingly sorrowful.

The company listened with great silence. Mr. O'Brien's steady, low tones brought the hardships of the London poor to such poignant light that even Mr. Mornay forgot that he disliked the man, and Beatrice forgot to feel wary of him. The tea in her cup grew cold; she never did reach for more biscuits. Only Mrs. Royleforst, though enraptured with interest at the images and scenes he conjured in his tales, kept slowly eating her plate of baked treats until it was emptied.

Beatrice was intrigued by the depth of feeling within the eyes of Mr. O'Brien. His voice was tender and yet full of pity, or grief, or anger, at the things he had seen. The earnest blue of his eyes became like a magnet to hers, and she could not be oblivious to his deep wish to be of help to such people as were in his parish; she began to feel the injustices of life for the poor in a new way. His points of outrage at society in allowing the existence of such hubs of sin and evil were so deeply experienced that his gentle voice was like the sharpest hammer, piercing to her soul. Ariana was no less affected, and held one hand over her heart as she listened.

Mr. Mornay took his wife's hand, knowing precisely what kind of thoughts she was no doubt entertaining. She, who had always wanted to do much for the poor, but had been content to give herself to her family and the village of Glendover.

“In short,” Mr. O'Brien said, “the people of St. Pancras are starving, and yet they do not seek a life elsewhere, but remain in their little rat nests—forgive my language, but I have seen these places—and continue to live by thievery and whoredom. I think I have aged a decade in these past few years, not only on account of my time in battle at war, but in these constant battles against evil here at home. I am too young, or, I daresay, too witless (with a smile) to devise any answer for the great need of the poor of St. Pancras, and as a curate I am virtually useless except in my capacity to pray and give sermons.”