Before the Season Ends (2 page)

She held up a folded piece of foolscap, on which was written the annual letter from Agatha Bentley, Charles’s sister, asking for Alberta, the eldest Forsythe daughter, for the season in London. It had arrived the day before.

Aunt Bentley was a childless wealthy widow and a hopeless socialite. For the past three years she had written annually to tell her brother and his wife why they ought to let her sponsor their eldest daughter for a London season. She owned a house in Mayfair (could anything be more respectable than that?) and knew a great number of the bigwigs in society. She had, in fact, that most important of commodities, which the Forsythes completely lacked: connexions. And as Charles’s family were her only living relatives, she was prepared—even anxious—to serve as chaperon for her niece.

Much to the lady’s frustration, Julia and Charles had annually extinguished her hopes, replying to her letters graciously but with the inevitable, “We cannot countenance a separation from our child at this time,” and so on. Charles was unflinching on this point, never doubting his girls would reap a greater benefit by remaining beneath his own roof. They knew full well, moreover, that Aunt Bentley could not hope, with all her money and connexions, to find as suitable a husband for their offspring as was possible right in Chesterton.

And yet, due to the distressing state of affairs with Ariana, Julia wished to consider her latest offer. Waving the letter in her hand, she said, “I think we ought to oblige your sister this year. She must be lonely, poor thing, and besides removing Ariana from the parish, a visit to the city could prove beneficial for her education.”

Ariana’s father silently considered the matter. His eldest daughter, Alberta, was as good as wed, having recently accepted an offer of marriage—to no one’s surprise—from John Norledge. Ariana, his second eldest, had been irksome in regard to the rector, but to pack her off to London? Surely the situation was not so dire as to warrant such a move.

“I think there is nothing else for it,” Mrs. Forsythe said emphatically. “Ariana is determined about Mr. Hathaway and, even though we can forbid her to speak to the man, she will pine and sigh and like as not drive us to distraction!”

Taking a pipe out of his waistcoat pocket, though he no longer smoked, Mr. Forsythe absently rubbed the polished wood in his fingers.

“I recall other fanciful notions of our daughter’s,” he said finally, “and they slipped away in time. Recall, if you will, when she was above certain her destiny was to be a missionary to America. That desire faded. She fancies this, she fancies that; soon she will fancy another thing entirely, and we shan’t hear another word about the ‘wonderful rector’ again.”

Mrs. Forsythe’s countenance, still attractive in her forties, became fretful.

“I grant that she has had strong…affections before. But this time, my dear, it is a complicated affection, for in this case it is the heart of the, ah,
affected
that we must consider. It has ideas of its own.”

“Of its own?”

Mrs. Forsythe looked about the room to be certain no one else had entered. The servants were so practiced at coming and going quietly that their presence might not be marked. But no, it was only the two of them. She lowered her voice anyway.

“The rector! I do not think he intends to lose her! What could delight him more than a young, healthy wife who might fill his table with offspring?”

Mr. Forsythe shook his head. “Our rector is not the kind of man to think only of himself; he must agree with us on the obvious unsuitability of the match.”

The rector in question was Thaddeus Admonicus Hathaway, of the Church in the Village Square. Mr. Hathaway was a good man. His sermons were grounded in sound religion, which meant they were based on orthodox Christian teaching. He was clever, and a popular dinner guest of the gentry, including the Forsythes. If these had not been true of him, Mr. Forsythe might have been as concerned as his wife. Knowing Mr. Hathaway, however, Charles Forsythe did not think a drastic action, such as sending his daughter to the bustling metropolis of London, was necessary.

Mrs. Forsythe chose not to argue with her spouse. She would simply commit the matter to prayer. If the Almighty decided that Ariana must be removed to Agatha’s house, then He would make it clear to her husband. In her years of marriage she had discovered that God was the Great Communicator, and she had no right to try and usurp that power. Her part was to pray, sincerely and earnestly.

Mr. Forsythe gave his judgment: “I fear that rather than exerting a godly influence upon her aunt, Ariana might be drawn astray by the ungodliness of London society.”

“Do you doubt her so much, Charles? This infatuation with Mr. Hathaway merely results from her youth, her admiration for his superior learning, and especially,” she said, leaning forward and giving him a meaningful look, “for lack of a young man who has your approval! Have you not frowned upon every male who has approached her in the past? Why, Mr. Hathaway is the first whom you have failed to frighten off and only because he is our rector! ’Tis little wonder a young girl takes a fanciful notion into her head!”

When he made no answer, she added, while adjusting the frilly morning cap on her head, “Mr. Hathaway causes me concern!”

Mr. Forsythe’s countenance was sober. “ ’Tis my sister who warrants the concern. She will wish to make a match for our daughter—and she will not be content with just any
mister
I assure you. In addition to which, a girl as pretty as our daughter will undoubtedly attract attention of the wrong sort.”

Julia was flustered for a moment, but countered, “Agatha is no threat to our child. We shall say we are sending Ariana to see the sights, take in the museums, and so forth. Surely there is no harm in that. A dinner party here or there should not be of concern. And Ariana is too intelligent to allow herself to be foisted upon an unsuitable man for a fortune or title.”

Too intelligent?
Charles thought of the aging minister who no one had had to “foist” her upon. Aloud he merely said, “I shall speak with her tonight. She shall be brought to reason, depend upon it. There will be no need to pack her off to London.”

H
ad Ariana, once she set her mind upon something, ever been swayed by reason? This was the question on Mr. Forsythe’s mind as he spoke with his daughter in his study that evening. He poked at the hearth with an iron instrument although the red coals were pouring out heat. It was, instead, the conversation that more rightly needed stirring, having gone cold; for Mr. Forsythe could not impress Ariana with the rector’s unsuitability.

She had been preparing for bed when he summoned her and was therefore in a warm chemise nightdress and robe, her long, luminous blonde locks about her shoulders. Her feet were tucked up beneath the robe for warmth, and she absently twirled a strand of hair between her fingers. Her sparkling eyes—said to be the handsomest in the county—were fixed upon him in mild perplexity. Her bedside candle sat nearby, ready for the return trip upstairs.

“If God were to smile upon the union you desire,” Mr. Forsythe told her gravely, turning from the fireplace to look at her, “then proof would be the blessing of your parents. But without the latter, you should not assume the former.”

Ariana blinked, looking surprised at such a thought, and her father silently rejoiced that perhaps he had finally hit his mark. Then she smiled, and it was so placating and compliant a smile that he felt his first twinge of true alarm. And when she spoke, her tone was so maddeningly sweet that he might have lost his temper altogether.

“Mr. Hathaway says, even the most pious are apt to misread the will of the Almighty on occasion! And I can rest in the knowledge that marriage is a blessed estate to be much desired; and how could I, who am seeking to please God, err, if I marry into the church?”

Mr. Forsythe’s face grew red. He set down the iron poker with his back to his daughter and made a grimace. Taking a breath to control the sudden rage he felt toward the minister, he put his hands upon his hips, and turned to face the girl. She was watching him cautiously.

“Has that man made an offer to you?” It came out in a bellow.

It was so uncharacteristic for Papa to lose his temper that Ariana felt the colour rise in her cheeks, and she clasped her hands together nervously.

“N-no!” It was true that she and the rector shared a tacit understanding, but there had as yet been no actual declaration. The damage had been done, however. Her father was clearly out of countenance. What would he do?

At the same moment, he was asking himself that very question. He was loathe to speak against God’s servant, but he had to do something.

“Ariana—.”

Her large eyes regarded him fearfully. They were light brown during calm moments, but colourful at the least excitement. Streaks of blue and green or even amethyst could sparkle in them, as well as health and youth, vigour and intelligence. Combined with her golden locks and delicate features, the young woman had a startlingly pleasing effect. He refused to allow her look of youthful innocence to sway him, however.

“I forbid you to speak with Mr. Hathaway from this day forward.”

A flash of colour in her eyes revealed her alarm.

“But, Papa! What if Mr. Hathaway addresses me? I must answer him. I shan’t be so disobliging as to not answer!”

Ariana and the older man had, of late, often held conversations after services, and it did seem likely he would not suffer her to pass by without a word. Therefore, after a moment’s thought, Mr. Forsythe added, “You may nod. And I shall answer for you.”

She was silent, regarding him with her restless eyes. In truth, she
was trying to imagine merely nodding at Mr. Hathaway come the Sabbath. He was bound to think her impolite, she thought.

Mr. Forsythe had hoped to bring his daughter to reason, but that had not worked. She was vulnerable to persuasion by the minister, apparently, more so than to her father. He would have to take the case directly to the rector. Fortunately, he had until Sunday to think of an appropriate way to discuss the issue without injuring the friendship between the man and their family. He instructed Ariana to think no more of Mr. Hathaway, for a match between them could not be. And then he sent her off to bed.

On the following Sunday things did not go quite as he planned.

For one thing, no sooner had Mr. Forsythe set foot out of doors after service than he was hailed by his friend Mr. Beckham (who happened to be the borough’s M.P.) for Mr. Beckham had a matter he wished to be advised on.

Mr. Hathaway, as was his custom, stood at the door of the church shaking hands and speaking to the congregation as they exited. When Mrs. Forsythe came forth, he stopped her for conversation, knowing that her girls would be following her. Ariana, like her sisters, curtseyed politely, and waited for her mother. Mr. Hathaway soon moved his inquiries to her—as well as his admiring eyes, which had come alight—and the girl saw her mother’s look of alarm with a sinking feeling in her breast. Why had her parents suddenly begun to oppose what she had been telling them all along? Mr. Hathaway was her lot in life!