The Country House Courtship (51 page)

He was smiling and nodding. “May I tell your sister or do you insist upon that honour?”

Beatrice looked askance for a moment. “Oh, you may tell her!” she breathed. She was still holding one arm across her stomach while she let this turn of events sink in upon her. But then a terrible thought occurred to her. “Sir!” She caught him before he left the room. “What if Mr. O'Brien does not wish to marry me?”

Mr. Mornay looked at her with mild eyes. “I do not think you will have that problem.”

That afternoon, Mr. Barton showed up at the doorstep of the vicarage. He was delighted to discover the good news regarding Mrs. Mornay, and he said just that to the ladies in the parlour. Miss Forsythe was not present, but he would ask about her soon enough.

“And how does Lord and Lady Horatio?” asked Mrs. Forsythe.

“Very well indeed, ma'am, I thank you. It seems that Lady Weverly has decided that she adores my sister; this has put her in the good graces of her new mother and father, and all is as well as it could be for them. For now.”

Mrs. Royleforst caught those ending words. “For
now
, sir? What mean you by that, pray?”

“Did I say that? How very foolish of me, for I meant not a thing! What I need to know,” he said, looking around the room (and smoothly changing the subject), “is whether it is now safe to call upon the Mornays.”

“We think it best, on account of the children, Mr. Barton, to wait a few more days.”

“There is always the devilish possibility,” said Mrs. Royleforst, “that my nephew may fall ill.”

“I see,” he said. “And Miss Forsythe? Is she well?”

“She is well, I thank you, sir,” said her mother.

“Capital,” he said, “Capital, indeed.”

“Will you join us for the evening meal?” asked Mr. O'Brien. He did not really wish for the man to stay, but his manners were too good for him not to ask. Mr. Barton, however, declined the offer. With no Beatrice there to amuse him, he would be bored to pieces if he stayed. Even more, while he did not wish to expose himself to any disease, he needed to settle the matter of his wedding. He would write to Mornay, renew his offer, and be done with it. He could return to London a happy man, and stay clear until every last threat of illness was gone. He would then marry Beatrice and buy the Manor House. It was a delightful plan.

Mr. Mornay opened the letter which had just been delivered, by hand, by Mr. Barton. He understood why the man had not wished to come into the house—but it did nothing to raise him in his estimation.

It was a letter asking for the hand of Miss Forsythe.

Having only just come from his wife's bedside, where he had regaled her with the very welcome news of Beatrice's surprising disclosure, he knew exactly how to reply.

Mr. Barton was delighted to receive a quick response to his declaration. But as he read the response—then reread it—he considered that there had to be some way to answer this; to change the girl's mind, perhaps. How could she possibly prefer a country clergyman to him—for he just knew that O'Brien had to be the reason for this rejection. It couldn't be. It lacked sense. He finally concluded that Mr. Mornay, for some inexplicable reason, preferred the “old acquaintance” to himself, but he did not believe it was Beatrice's sentiment. He crumpled the note and threw it into the fireplace. He would see about this. He would not give up quite that easily!

The next few days passed slowly. Mr. Mornay carried his wife downstairs one day; and the next, she came down herself. It was wonderful to see her improving so speedily, but there was a small sadness in the household, nevertheless, for she missed the children exceedingly.

“I cannot stand it for a second longer!” she said, finally on the next day. “Get me my children, this day, sir, or I will go mad!” Mr. Mornay folded his arms and stared for a moment at his beautiful wife. Then he smiled.

“Master Nigel, come, you are to go to your mama!” Mrs. Forsythe's joy could hardly be contained as she summoned the little boy. The child, dark curls bobbing, dropped the wooden toy he'd been holding, in a crouched position, and sprang to his feet. Eagerly, he shouted, “Mama! Huzzah!” The baby Miranda was hastily dressed and made ready and bundled off for Mr. Mornay's carriage which awaited them.

During the drive, Mr. Mornay kept his son upon his lap, and kissed his head, and played with him, and listened to him with endless patience. He feasted his eyes on his daughter too. When they reached the house, the children were brought to the drawing room, where Ariana was seated on a comfortable divan, fluffed with pillows, but she stood as soon as they entered the room, and watched with joy while her son ran toward her. She dropped to one knee and held her arms open for him. The little one flew into her embrace.

“Mama! Mama! Where were you? Where were you?”

“Oh, my Nigel, I missed you!” she said, giving him an almost crushing hug, for she could not embrace him tightly enough. She turned her face and began kissing his head and cheeks, and her eyes were teary, if not closed, as she absorbed this long-awaited reunion. She ceased kissing and petting his face and held him again tightly against her chest, though he began wriggling from her.

“My toy,” he said, “do you want to see it, Mama?”

“Yes!” she answered, still beholding him like an angel sent from heaven. Meanwhile, Mrs. Perler brought the baby, and Ariana held out her arms; and this time tears did fall.

“Look, Mama!” Nigel had a complete new set of exquisitely formed and painted wooden soldiers, and now brandished a few in his hands—they were of the prince's colours, as the Regent had them specially made and sent when he heard of Mrs. Mornay's illness. When Ariana noticed their superior craftsmanship, Mrs. Forsythe said, “A gift from the prince, my love. When he heard of your illness.”

“Oh!” She was sensible of the honour and the thoughtfulness, and admired the pieces prettily not just for Nigel's sake, but because they really were tiny works of art. From her apron, Mrs. Perler pulled a few more of the Dragoons, and Nigel shouted, “See how many, Mama? From the king!”

“The prince, my love,” she corrected.

“No, he's the king, Mama! He
has
to be the king!” His little face went into a pout. She said, “We cannot make people what we would have them be, but must accept them as they are, my pet.”

Some of the toy men were on their knees, aiming a weapon at an imaginary foe; others were on horseback, and the horses were fashioned as carefully and with as much detail as the men. The prince himself was represented by a good, tall fellow (much taller than the Regent, in reality), who held up a sword in one hand, while his other arm pointed forward, as if to direct his troop to the battle. His costume even included a little blue sash across his chest, which, unlike the other painted figures, was made of real silk. And the hat he wore had real miniscule tassels spouting from the centre.

“Has anyone sent a thank-you to the prince?” Ariana asked. “How long ago were these received?”

“Just the other day, and I did send a note of thanks with the messenger who delivered them. At that time, my sweet, we were not certain of your survival”—and here Mrs. Forsythe stopped, her eyes filling with tears just at the thought of how close a brush Ariana had endured with death—“and perhaps it would be a kindness to send another message, telling him of God's mercy upon you and us all.”

“Now I think on it,” said Ariana, “Mr. Mornay can give our thanks in person, as he is to see the prince after he is ennobled.”

“Yes! You will be Lady Mornay, now!” Her mother's eyes were filled with tears, again, though they were happy ones.

Meanwhile Nigel was trying to be patient, but was yanking upon his mother's gown.

“And you,” said Ariana, looking fondly down at him, “Will be ‘the honourable' Nigel, sir! On paper, at any rate.”

Ignoring this, he cried, “Will you play with me and my men, mama? You can be the King!”

“You mean the prince, sir!” she said, playfully.

“Mama, why can he not be king?”

She smiled. “Because the real king is his father! And he lives, still.”

Nigel frowned. “Why is he not here? I want the king too, Mama!”

“This is the prince's regiment, sir! You have the honour of being their master, and that must satisfy you.”

“I want to show them to Papa again,” he said, for they had already been taken out and admired during the carriage ride.