The Country House Courtship by Linore Rose Burkard Page B

appallingly sorrowful.
    The company listened with great silence. Mr. O’Brien’s steady, low tones brought the hardships of the London poor to such poignant light that even Mr. Mornay forgot that he disliked the man, and Beatrice forgot to feel wary of him. The tea in her cup grew cold; she never did reach for more biscuits. Only Mrs. Royleforst, though enraptured with interest at the images and scenes he conjured in his tales, kept slowly eating her plate of baked treats until it was emptied.
    Beatrice was intrigued by the depth of feeling within the eyes of Mr. O’Brien. His voice was tender and yet full of pity, or grief, or anger, at the things he had seen. The earnest blue of his eyes became like a magnet to hers, and she could not be oblivious to his deep wish to be of help to such people as were in his parish; she began to feel the injustices of life for the poor in a new way. His points of outrage at society in allowing the existence of such hubs of sin and evil were so deeply experienced that his gentle voice was like the sharpest hammer, piercing to her soul. Ariana was no less affected, and held one hand over her heart as she listened.
    Mr. Mornay took his wife’s hand, knowing precisely what kind of thoughts she was no doubt entertaining. She, who had always wanted to do much for the poor, but had been content to give herself to her family and the village of Glendover.
    â€œIn short,” Mr. O’Brien said, “the people of St. Pancras are starving, and yet they do not seek a life elsewhere, but remain in their little rat nests—forgive my language, but I have seen these places—and continue to live by thievery and whoredom. I think I have aged a decade in these past few years, not only on account of my time in battle at war, but in these constant battles against evil here at home. I am too young, or, I daresay, too witless (with a smile) to devise any answer for the great need of the poor of St. Pancras, and as a curate I am virtually useless except in my capacity to pray and give sermons.”
    Could this account for his dark hair?
Beatrice wondered. Did not people usually turn grey, or white, as a result of great difficulties? Perhaps; but Mr. O’Brien had turned brunette, strange as it seemed. Again she noticed that the change suited him quite well. It was too bad that he was not a man of independent means. As a curate, he was not the type of man (she knew in her heart) that she must marry. She felt a pang of unrest with the thought, but brushed it aside.
    No unsuitable man would make her turn her head, not even an impressive curate with a heart of gold! She was determined to have her day in the upper-class society of the Season, and to see what would come of that. There had to be gentlemen aplenty there, and Mr. O’Brien was not the only man in the world with beautiful blue eyes and a big heart.
    I may be young
, she thought,
but I am no longer the child who would marry the first eligible young man she met just because he wanted a cure for being lovesick!
Mr. O’Brien had been utterly deflated in spirit upon losing Ariana to Mr. Mornay, and Beatrice had felt sorry for him. Now she was older and wiser. Now she understood life far better. And besides, he no longer seemed the least bit sick from love.

Five

    A riana was feeling a great heartache. Had not she herself wanted to turn her hand to helping the poor of London?
    She and Phillip had been so happy raising their own little family that thoughts of the plight of the city’s poor had utterly fled from her mind. It had been too, too long since she’d even considered it. Phillip had agreed to support many a city institution, and they had been faithfully contributing their help since; but still she suddenly felt far removed from it all. It did not seem enough—writing a cheque or sending a bank note. Such was not a sacrifice for them. It was nothing like being there firsthand as Mr. O’Brien