The Country House Courtship (28 page)

Mr. Mornay had been reining in his horse, while the animal stamped impatiently. He suddenly barked, “Get on behind me, O'Brien.”

Mr. O'Brien hesitated. “I do not ride very often…”

“Yes? So? Up with you.” He held out one arm to help him. Mr. O'Brien, being tall and slim was able to climb atop Tornado better than most men would have. He was obliged to hang on to Mr. Mornay, which felt ludicrous to him, but what could he do? He'd fall right off the animal if he didn't. He hoped no one would be about save the groom or stable hands when they returned.

After his recent discussions with Mornay, he had felt—at long last—they were approaching more of a friendly footing with one another. Was this day going to ruin all?

“Is it not a pretty day?” Ariana asked.

“It is a cold one,” Mrs. Forsythe returned, for she was beginning to feel the effects of it about her feet; and without a muff, and no pockets on her redingote, even her gloved hands were starting to grow stiff with cold.

Ariana stopped in her tracks. “Are you cold?” She sounded surprised.

“My dear, it must be near freezing; yes, I am cold. I think we should go back.”

“Mama—we can call upon a tenant and escape the cold. Mr. Mornay has had every cottage whitewashed on the inside. I should like you to see one. And, would you not like to meet some of our cottagers? They are the dearest people!”

Mrs. Forsythe surveyed her daughter. Ariana had a cap on beneath her bonnet, a lined heavy redingote, and half-boots. She did not, in fact, appear to notice the cold.

“How is it you are not chilled half to death as I am?”

Ariana's mouth dropped open just a little. “Oh, my! I do not seem to feel the cold as much as other people. I think since my mishap falling from the boat that time, I seem to have developed a resistance to cold air! But I will return with you, since you are so uncomfortable. We'll see a cottage another day.”

They turned back toward the house, but in seconds, they both heard a woman's voice calling out to them. No; it was to Ariana. “
Mrs. Mornay! Mum! Mrs. Mornay! If you please, mum!”

“My word!” she breathed.

“Who is that woman?” asked her mother.

“I cannot tell…though I believe it may be Mrs. Taller. She seems to be in some distress! Wait here, Mama!”

Ariana began walking quickly back toward the woman, who was now running toward her. Mrs. Forsythe waited only a few seconds before deciding that she must know what was happening, and so she hurried after her daughter.

Mr. Barton was elated that he had been able to rescue Miss Forsythe.

At the house he waited impatiently after their arrival for a man to come and help her down; he thought it was safer if he stayed astride the horse until she had been helped off it. When a hearty shout of “Ho, there!” still failed to produce a boy or footman, he gave a sigh, and said, “We'll go to the stables for help; and then I'll get you to the house in a trice.”

“I can climb down right here,” Beatrice said.

“No, ma'am! You're liable to break an ankle!” He had taken the horse he was offered, after coming to call at the house and finding there was a search going on for Miss Forsythe and the curate, but it was a good-sized mare; fifteen hands, at least. That the clergyman was gone off with Miss Forsythe angered him. Was that pesky cleric trying to make an inroad to Miss Forsythe's heart? That was not allowable. Having conceived of marrying her himself, he was fast growing overfond of the idea. He liked it very well. He relished the thought of finding himself a relation of the Mornays. And if he was to buy the Manor House, they would be neighbours as well. He and Mornay ought to be fast friends in no time.

It made such a cozy picture in his mind that he was determined to be as pleasing to the young lady as possible, and so to win her. With a protective tightening of his hold about her now, he smiled to himself and turned the horse toward the stables.

After Beatrice and he were leaving the stables, she turned to her companion. “Mr. Barton—may I ask for your confidence, sir?”

He was thrilled to be asked for such a thing from her. “You have it, my dearest Miss Forsythe—with all my heart!”

“Thank you, sir. You see,” and she hesitated. “I comprehend that you may have a mistaken notion since it appears that I was alone with Mr. O'Brien—”

“If it is a mistaken notion,” he said, carefully, “you need only say so; and I shall believe you, utterly.”

“Shall you! Oh, I thank you, sir! For there was nothing at all improper about it! My feet were frozen, and Mr. O'Brien was good enough to build a fire for me.”

He had no doubt that she was speaking the truth, so it was easy for him to assure her of that.

“But what I most need from you, Mr. Barton, is your assurance that you shall tell no one about the cottage.” She had stopped walking, and they gazed at one another. He was wishing he could declare his intentions right then and there, but was momentarily lacking the courage.

“I am sorry to ask you to participate in what seems to amount to a lie,” she said awkwardly, and she turned away and resumed walking, for she was very agitated. “But I fear that if Mr. Mornay learns what happened, he will insist upon believing other lies—that we were improper or some such thing! And that would mean a marriage!”

Now Mr. Barton became utterly soothing. His worst fear at that moment was precisely that which she dreaded might happen. Mornay was the type, it seemed to him, to sit upon points. “Miss Forsythe, I would sooner die than reveal your secret,” he told her with entire honesty. “I came upon you in the wood, let us say. And brought you back from there.”

“Thank you, Mr. Barton! Then we are agreed upon it!”

“Does Mr. O'Brien know of your concern?” Mr. Barton asked. “Will he keep your secret?” How could Beatrice not have thought of that! For a moment, she floundered in uncertainty. “Oh, dear!” But then her look cleared and she exclaimed, “Mr. O'Brien is a new curate! He shan't want a hint of scandal about his name! I daresay he will be happy to go along with us!”

Mr. Barton nodded, his eyes narrowing shrewdly. “I think you have the right of it. Excellent.”

“Oh, Mrs. Mornay!” Mrs. Taller had now reached Ariana and started to sob. Ariana's large eyes, filled with compassion, had broken a growing dam of tears inside the lady, and suddenly she was crying uncontrollably. Ariana put out her arms, and the woman fell into them, sobbing. In fact, she was not feeling well herself. All of the strain of worry, and tending her sick children, had resulted in an alarming measure of faintness. Mrs. Taller blinked, and tried to remember her mission, and that this was the mistress, and she stepped back.

“How can I help you, Mrs. Taller?”

Mrs. Forsythe, standing back a few feet out of politeness, was wondering the same thing.

“Oh, my lady!” she cried, forgetting that Ariana was not a “real” lady, “'tis my daughter! MaryAnn!” She had to suppress more sobs at this point.

“What has happened to MaryAnn?” Ariana asked, to prompt more of the story from her.

“I fear she's dyin'! I give 'er the 'pothecary's cure, but it ain't done nothin'! She's worse'n ever!”

“Tell me what happened to MaryAnn,” Ariana instructed.

“She's got the fever! Three or four days, now! I've tried to nurse 'er through it, but she's only got worse! Ah fear—ah fear she's dyin'! Please say you'll 'elp us, Mrs. Mornay! You're me last 'ope!”

Mrs. Forsythe felt terrible, but she had to speak: “What can Mrs. Mornay do, madam? She is not God.”

“Come and look at 'er!” she cried. “Pray for my child, mistress, ah beg you!”

Ariana hesitated, not sure of what to do. Finally, she turned to her mother. “Mama, I pray you, go back to the house and see that Mr. Speckman is sent for at once. See that he comes directly to the Taller's cottage!”

“Oh, bless you, mum!” the lady cried. “Bless y'er good 'eart!”

Mrs. Forsythe turned to do as she was bade, but there was something she did not like about the situation—only she could not think what it was. The doctor was needed and she must hurry back. But then it struck her, and she whirled back around. Her daughter had already gone a few yards, hurrying along beside Mrs. Taller.

“Ariana!” she called, loudly as she could. “Do not go to that gel! You may get sick!”

“I am not afraid of that, Mama!” She turned away.

“Ariana! The
children
! Your infant!”

This stopped Ariana in her tracks. She turned back around. When her gaze met her mother's, the older woman nodded her head.
Yes, you must think of your children!
her eyes seemed to say. But Mrs. Taller pulled on her redingote. “Ahm beggin' you, Mrs. Mornay! Ah jus' know if
you
pray over'er, she'll get better! Ahm sure of it!”

Ariana turned to the woman, and her face creased in regret. “Mrs. Taller, I will pray for MaryAnn, I promise you! But I cannot go with you to see her. I am sorry, ma'am, truly!”

Mrs. Taller fell silent and stared at Ariana for a long moment. Then, she lost her wits. She fell upon Ariana, crying and sobbing. “We'er goin' to lose'er! Ah know it!” She couldn't stop; she began to pull at Ariana's gown, and fell to her knees, still sobbing. Ariana just stood there helplessly, not knowing what to do. She began to gently extricate herself, only the lady was not ready to let her go.

Mrs. Taller wasn't thinking straight. In fact, she suddenly couldn't even
see
straight! What was she doing outside in this freezing air? She was shaking, and held on with an iron grip to this white vision in front of her. Was this an angel from heaven she had caught?
Please!
she begged.
Heal my daughter! Heal her! Have mercy on her!

Ariana saw men approaching and waved wildly to them. She could not get Mrs. Taller's strong hands off of her legs, and she was beginning to have difficulty staying on her feet. Mrs. Taller was becoming incoherent; she never heard the shouts of the man coming up swiftly behind her. Ariana recognized him; it was the woman's husband. Thank goodness! He said, “Betsey!” in a strong voice, but when she heard it, Mrs. Taller froze for a second, and then wrapped her arms around Ariana's legs as though she would hold on for dear life. “
Heal my daughter!”
She still sobbed.