The Country House Courtship by Linore Rose Burkard Page A

contrast,” he finished, “even St. Pancras’s parish seems tame in comparison.”
    They all nodded.
    â€œThat is my parish, you know; I am curate there.”
    â€œAt St. Pancras?” Ariana asked. A flash of concern went through her. What a difficult place for a sensitive soul!
    â€œYes, 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.
    â€œWhat
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.”
    â€œOh, 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.”
    â€œOh, 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!
”
    â€œMy 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