The Country House Courtship (43 page)

“I may yet be at fault for her death!” More tears came.

“Miss Forsythe—Miss
Beatrice
.” (He could not help but to use her name after remembering her from when she was younger). “You are leaping to conclusions that are not warranted by the circumstances! Please, let us take each day as it comes, and attend only to the trouble it brings. Do not borrow troubles that have yet to occur.”

“But I cannot help thinking she may die! Other people have died from this! And her exposure was all—
my
—fault!”

His voice was suddenly firm and strong. “Beatrice! That is enough of such nonsense!”

She looked up at him in surprise. “Is it nonsense?”

“Utterly.”

She sniffed, but stopped crying, and hereafter had to eye him with a surprised regard. Mr. O'Brien was not one to tolerate nonsense, and she appreciated him for it. Indeed, she even felt better now that she had stopped crying. Perhaps Ariana would not have a severe case of the sickness. She might even be recovered by the following day! Why ought she to worry? Mr. O'Brien was right! They would pray for her and keep a chin up until they heard reason to warrant greater concern.

“As to our former discussion,” he said suddenly, leaning in toward her a little, “if I may be of any further help, please do call upon me. But I advise you to voice your concerns to Mr. Mornay as soon as he is able to hear them.”

“I shall; I thank you.”

Mr. O'Brien paused, but had to ask: “Are you to be considered betrothed, then? To Mr. Barton?”

“No promises have been made. He has not spoken for me, yet.”

“It is what you wish, however?”

She hesitated. His earnest blue eyes were actually quite beautiful for a man. There was a hint of fine blond stubble about his chin, but it was not unbecoming. He was in no way fastidious, and yet his appearance was neat and clean. Moreover, he had been nothing if not exceedingly kind and helpful.

She had to answer him, so she said the only thing she could say.

“It is, yes.” As she said it, however, she felt it was
not
what she wished. How irksome! It had to be, for only Mr. Barton could provide everything she based her hopes upon. Yet there was something in the curate that drew her to him, and it had nothing at all to do with his situation, or his fortune, or his lack of one. It had nothing to do with the size of his house, or with whether or not he would go to London for the Season. It had nothing to do with reason, for goodness' sake! It was utterly unreasonable, and went against everything she thought she had wanted in a man. But Beatrice was suddenly feeling as though she were in love.

With Mr. O'Brien.

Oh, dear.

S
ome of the colour had drained from Mr. Mornay's face, but he nevertheless stood watching while the physician finished up the messy business of bleeding his wife. Ariana had showed little response except to moan softly now and then, at which her husband had taken one of her hands.
So hot. So abominably hot!

When the doctor's assistant went to empty the basin with that precious dark fluid from Ariana's body, Freddie came in holding a letter salver.

“I want no correspondence now,” Mornay said sourly.

“It is from Carlton House, sir.” He held out the silver tray with a single, thickly folded note. Mr. Mornay sighed and took it, saying, “Hold off.” The butler waited. Phillip opened the blob of sealing wax and began to read. There wasn't much; it was merely an invitation. A thinly disguised command, more like, for the Mornays to stop at Brighton to see the Regent. He'd be entertaining at his palace for a few weeks, and wished them to come as soon as possible.

Mr. Mornay's look was grave. He crumpled the paper into a ball and tossed it into the fireplace. “Freddie, have my secretary send a response. Tell the prince that Mrs. Mornay is ill, and that we can go nowhere at present.”

“Er, sir, I beg your pardon, but there is no secretary in the house. Shall I send for one?”

“Can you not write?” the master asked, making Freddie's eyes open in surprise.

“I, sir? To the prince?”

“Yes, yes, it does not matter. So long as you can write legibly!”

“Yes, sir.” He stood up straighter, resigned to what was coming.

“Do as I say.” He paused, and Freddie, from long acquaintance with the man, waited again. “And tell him to pray.”

“Yes, sir.” He bowed and went down to the business office. He felt very inadequate to the task at hand—a butler writing to the Prince Regent! But he also felt a new sense of importance; he was so inured to his position at Aspindon that he seldom felt his own importance as the butler of the establishment, but today it was borne in upon him in a new way. He hurried his step to get the missive done, and sent back with the man who had delivered the royal message.

At the secretary's desk, Frederick found a piece of the best foolscap and a plume pen, and opened the little inkwell upon the polished wooden surface. “To His Royal Highness, the Prince Regent,” he began. When the letter was finished, he opened a jar of blotting sand and sprinkled it liberally over the single paragraph of writing. After shaking off the excess, he folded it twice, lit a wafer of sealing wax with a tinder box, and dropped a good blob of the wax—he used black, to stress the point of the reply—and pressed the master's seal, a tiny imprint of the initials “P” and “M” in a miniature ornate style onto the wax. He had signed the letter, “Your Humble and Obedient Servant, Mr. W. Frederick, Butler.”

When Mr. Frederick had found the prince's messenger in the kitchens, having a bite—a place that was deemed safe from the illness—he gave the note to Cook, who was told to wipe it clean of Freddie's breath or touch. (Who knew how the sickness might be passed?) And it was sent on its way, with one of Mr. Mornay's horses. The bother was that the groom was not in the stables, and neither, Freddie noticed, was Tornado! Could the man still be away to deliver his message to the vicarage? Surely he should have been back by now. And to take Tornado! Dashed presumptuous of him!

He himself had to choose a mount for the messenger, and to the man's complaint that no one had come to see to his horse and he had been forced to take the animal to the stables with his own hand, Freddie replied, “We have only a skeleton crew, here, sir, as our mistress has the fever.”

The man's eyes widened, and from that moment on he could not exit the place fast enough.

But where was Mr. Rudson, the head groom? And what had he done with Tornado?

Mr. Rudson opened his eyes and blinked. A pain in his head assailed him. When he tried to move, more aches shouted their presence, but he saw that he was beneath a tall tree, and it all came flooding back. While he slowly managed to get to his feet, and was brushing himself off, he reviewed the events which had landed him there—literally.

Tornado, after getting into a frenzied and wild gallop, had began to buck at odd moments, trying to rid himself of his rider—he, Mr. Rudson. He'd grasped the pommel, the animal's mane, the seat of the saddle, anything and everything to keep his seat. Up hills and down, he'd hung on grimly, knowing that he was likely a ruined man. Mr. Mornay would not, could not forgive him for this, he was certain. Nor would Tornado, who reminded him often of his resentment by bucking. The horse was a sly devil, too, for he began to close in on tree trunks, trying to graze the man's legs, doing anything to make him lose his hold on the reins or the saddle.

Finally, with a surprising and desperate buck that went into a spin, Mr. Rudson had gone flying off the seat as smooth as a stone being flung upon the water. And then all had gone black. And now here he was. Freezing from cold, far from help, and sore as a blind carpenter's thumb. He supposed he was lucky to be alive. That was something, anyway.

Tornado made his way back to the stables slowly and at his leisure. He found his hay bin and helped himself. His stall was not open and he whinnied in annoyance, but eventually settled upon standing just outside it, munching hay as though nothing at all had occurred.

Mr. Rudson, two miles from the house and stables, had come to his feet, sighed heavily, and began walking. He was going to be sore for days. With any luck, that devil of a horse would be back at the stables when he got there, and he was sure, very sure, that he would never mount that demon again.

Ariana was growing worse. She was sweating a great deal, and hair clung to her face and neck, despite Mr. Mornay's attempts to wash it back periodically with a damp cloth. When she wasn't tossing and turning restlessly, she either moaned or spoke out in delirium—a thing which Mr. Mornay discovered, to his shame, that he could barely stand. Was he so weak, he asked himself? Since when had a little suffering reduced him to speechless dismay? He remained by her bedside, however; and when she chanced to call his name during her moments of unconscious speech, it was heartrending to see him leaning over her and trying to reach her, to let her know that he was there. It was useless.