The Country House Courtship (16 page)

A steady clear-eyed gaze met his. Only someone as familiar with the Paragon as his wife would know that he was suppressing a smile. “The very one, sir.”

Meanwhile, Mr. Barton had come to make his second call upon the Mornays, and had his sister in tow. Miss Barton was decidedly not feeling her best, but he had insisted she come to meet the other women. Their hopes of making her acquaintance had been too plain for him to ignore, and he wanted to do everything in his power to cement good relations between himself and the Mornays—while he could.

Anne was received warmly, and soon they were all lounging about the drawing room, where Mrs. Royleforst was playing with Nigel, and Mrs. Forsythe held the baby. Anne could not help herself—she had to go and sit beside the lady to see the infant. She had never cared for an infant in her life. After admiring Miranda for some minutes, Miss Barton gasped with pleasure when Mrs. Forsythe offered to let her hold the child. She looked to Ariana, who was watching, and said, “Oh, thank you!” when she smiled her assent.

Mr. O'Brien had not yet returned from the meeting with Mr. Mornay, and seeing an opportunity, Mr. Barton invited Beatrice to a game of piquet. They sat at a small card table on one side of the room, and Mr. Barton produced a set of playing cards from a pocket.

“You have cards upon you?” she asked, rather shocked.

He saw that it had been a mistake to have them, but he answered, “I was hoping to suggest a game with you today. I merely wished to come prepared.”

She smiled. “I see.” Glancing at the cards, she said, “May I?”

He handed her the deck, and she quickly started pulling out any card below sixes.

“You know,” she said, while she shuffled the remaining thirty-six cards, “I have read that this is a popular game at men's clubs.”

“And so it is,” he answered, surprised that she would mention that.

“Do you enjoy gaming, sir?” She did not meet his eyes, and Mr. Barton had to smile to himself. Miss Forsythe was supremely easy to read; she wished to know if he gamed habitually. Easy to answer to her satisfaction. “Not at all, Miss Forsythe! It is a hazardous occupation, as you must know.”

“Indeed, I do,” she said, with a relieved smile. Mr. Barton relaxed in his chair, while she dealt out the hand. This was going to be an amusing diversion. He chanced to look up and saw that Anne had been listening to their talk, however, and she wore a look on her face that told him she knew he had purposely lied to Miss Forsythe. Her brother, in her opinion, was addicted to much gaming. He merely narrowed his eyes at her, and then yawned. Anne returned her attention to the baby in her arms.

Mr. Barton was happy to be occupied in such a fashion that he did not have to give any of
his
attention to a child. He'd shrewdly caught on quickly that the Mornay children were welcome into the midst of the adult gatherings whenever Mrs. Perler or their parents seemed to feel it beneficial for them. If Nigel scraped an elbow, he was brought to his mother. If Miranda was unusually fussy, to Mama she must be brought. The Mornays never murmured a complaint at this practice, though Mr. Barton frowned upon it. He was wise enough to keep his sentiments to himself. The Mornays were not fashionable in their treatment of the children. Most upper-class houses acted as though youngsters were nonentities when guests were about. In London, one could almost come to believe that no one had any children. No one of the fashionable world, that is, and at least not small children. They were never in sight, never heard from, never spoken of. With the Mornays, it was an entirely different thing. The children must be considered in every decision.

It was an irritation he would live with. But he started thinking of how to broach the subject of the prince's wishes to Mornay. His safest course was to wait for a good moment and slip it into a conversation that could support it. But how long until that happened? Anne was still as slim as a rail—but her very thinness meant that her condition would likely show up all the more starkly. He had best stop pussyfooting around and get to the point. Soon.

Mr. O'Brien was still agog with his sudden good fortune—such a blessing! “Is there no curate in line, then?” he asked his host. “Have no arrangements yet been made?” He was as eager as a young cub, and his words were spilling out faster as a result.

“I have been applied to,” Mr. Mornay said, “to give them the man to fill the vacancy. I am happy to offer them you—if you wish.”

“If I wish?” He looked up at his host; the man he had feared was his enemy, but who now seemed to be doing him a favour. “When's the last time you stopped at St. Pancras's parish, sir?”

Mr. Mornay smiled. “I thought so.” He reached for a piece of paper. “I'll write your recommendation this very moment, and perhaps we can even squeeze in a visit to the place this very day so that you can see it. Mr. Hargrove—he is the incumbent—cannot be off soon enough. He is above anxious to take up his new living as soon as possible.”

He quickly penned the letter, and assured the magistrate that he could send a man that very day, whom Mr. Hargrove could interview personally for the vacancy.

“Where is Mr. Hargrove off to, do you know, sir?”

“Oh, somewhere in the dales, I don't recall, really. Apparently he has many relations in that area, and they are eager to welcome him. His new benefice shall supply him a surprisingly substantial income, which is good news for you, for he won't require any part or share in the glebe.”

O'Brien watched while Mornay, his old nemesis, took out a crisp piece of foolscap and dipped his pen in ink. The man was behaving in the most disarming, generous manner imaginable. If he didn't know better, Mr. O'Brien would have had to admit that he was feeling downright friendly toward him. Only that couldn't be possible. Mr. Mornay had used to despise O'Brien.

“I'll suggest our visit later today, which ought to send him into raptures; he could not have imagined that we would just happen to have a curate in our midst.” The little smile on his face revealed that he found the circumstance amusing. Mornay didn't look up, but spoke while he wrote. Mr. O'Brien was dazed with the unexpected benevolence.

“Later today!” he exclaimed, as one who might be dreaming. “Are you confident, sir, (I hope I may ask) that the Ordinary will approve me, then?”

Mornay glanced up only for a second. His mind was evidently on the paper before him, but he replied quickly, “'Twas the Ordinary who asked me to see to the business. He apparently has a frightfully busy schedule as of his writing to me, and he is prepared to accept the man I choose.” He laid down his pen, and while he neatly folded the missive, he looked into Mr. O'Brien's eyes.

“The magistrate of the village of Warwickdon and the Ordinary are one and the same man, you see.” When he finished writing, he put down the pen and looked squarely at Mr. O'Brien. “I have one reservation which must be addressed.”

Mr. O'Brien's heart skipped a beat. “Yes?”

Phillip's eyes looked hard at the young man. “I hope I can expect that your youthful infatuation for my wife has been fully resolved?”

Mr. O'Brien shut his eyes in a moment of horror, and then opened them wide. “Sir—if I only knew the words to describe to you the remorse I have suffered regarding your wife—the shame I have felt! The memory of my past behaviour is a constant reminder to me of why I must fall to my knees daily and beg God to use me as His minister! I am helpless to my own depravity, I am afraid.”

Mr. Mornay was satisfied, and tried to stop him. “That will suffice,” he said.

But Mr. O'Brien had not done reproving himself. “Just the thought of my…
infatuation
(he said the word with difficulty)—keeps me ever humble before God, sir.”

Mr. Mornay's brows went up, and he was almost annoyed. “O'Brien, you needn't rake yourself over the coals! Receive God's forgiveness and be done with it, man! I only require knowing for certain that you are no longer harbouring any secret hopes of her.”

“No, sir! Upon my honour! Upon my soul.”

“Do not swear to me upon your soul!” He stood up, scowling. “Your soul is a business between you and God, and has nothing to do with me.”

“Of course, sir, I know it.” Despite his host's evident annoyance, Mr. O'Brien had to smile, for he was being encouraged in the faith by a man he least thought to find faith in.

Mr. Mornay lit the sealing candle and let a proper size blob fall upon the folded letter; he blew out the stick of wax, pressed his seal into the little blob after blowing it somewhat dry, and then stood up, signaling Mr. O'Brien to do the same.

The cleric felt awkward, but he said, “I don't know how to thank you. Your generosity to me is quite…quite remarkable!” Mr. Mornay listened with a peaceful silence and then nodded, but he went and rang the bellpull. He said, “I believe you have letters to write, sir.”

Mr. O'Brien said, “Yes, of course!” He needed to write to the vicar of his parish, and give notice. He would send a letter to the Ordinary of St. Pancras as well; he started to say something, but took a step toward the desk, behind which his host was again seated. “I can't thank you enough, sir! I can't—”

“No need. Be off with you, then.” He knew his wife would be grateful to see how happy the man was for this change in his situation, however, so he said, “You may announce your good fortune to the others.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir! My utmost thanks to you, sir!”

Mr. Mornay stood and turned to face his bookshelves, putting his back to the younger man, who was supposed to recognize his cue to be gone. Instead, from behind him, he continued to hear, “I shall never forget this kindness. It means a world of difference to me.”

Mr. Mornay had taken a volume from his shelf, and now opened it as if to read a passage, but he looked at the young man enough to say (in a firm tone reminiscent of his old cutting replies), “Mr. O'Brien. Get yourself to the drawing room,
before I change my mind
.”

The cleric's eyes opened wide. “Yes, sir. At once.” And he scrambled off.

When he joined the other guests, Mr. O'Brien's heart was lighter than it had felt for an age. He knew the warden at St. Pancras would be sorry to see him leave, but he himself could not be so. It had only been an irritation to feel so useless in the parish. When he walked in the room, Ariana chanced to look up, and she smiled. His immediate responding grin told her everything she needed to know, and she held out one hand to him, saying, “I must offer my compliments to you, sir, and my deepest congratulations!”