The House in Grosvenor Square (5 page)

A group of London's premier shopkeepers came forward with their assistants, all bowing and speaking at once. Ariana was looking in confusion from one gentleman to the next until her aunt intervened.

“Gentlemen, please! One at a time!” Mrs. Bentley's authoritative voice never failed to produce its desired effect, this time bringing an instant silence. But it couldn't last: The merchants shared a passionate desire to be of help furnishing or decorating the home of the Paragon
.

Mrs. Bentley had sent word to them, inviting them to attend. They could advise on the latest style, accept orders, and offer expert opinions. A new mistress might decide there were things she must have that were lacking in the house or at least wish to make her presence known with a few small
changes, a few indications of her tastes and styles, particularly in a dwelling that had been home to only a bachelor for years.

Mrs. Bentley motioned to the butler, and he came and deftly ushered the shopkeepers and merchants into a ground floor sitting room. There he told them, in no uncertain terms, that they must wait to be called upon. And wait they would. It meant a lot to their business if they could include in their pattern books a little card with the words, “This item was purchased by the Paragon” or “Proudly in the morning room in the house of the Paragon.”

“What are they here for, Aunt Bentley?” Ariana asked.

“For you, of course. To help you decide what you want for the house. Or may need.”

“I could not conceive of—” she started to say, but already Mrs. Hamilton was leading them to the stairs to start the tour. And Mrs. Bentley walked off to take Mr. Pellham's arm. Ariana was troubled about her aunt's words. Not only had 25 Grosvenor Square been planned and built with particular care for architectural uniformity and classic styling, but Mr. Mornay himself had the better sense of fashion, style, and colour. Did he not choose her trousseau for that reason? And his house, in fact, was appointed with the same faultless taste, which had earned him the descriptive title of “Paragon.” Everything elegant, the right fit, colours, and style, so that everyone bowed to his word on a matter of fashion or decoration. There was beauty and grace in his dwelling, everything placed precisely where it should be.

With a sigh Ariana followed the housekeeper, hoping her aunt would forget about the tradesmen. As the group made its way to the front drawing room, suddenly Mrs. Bentley was back at her side.

“Now that I think on it, I want to oversee the unpacking of your trousseau,” her aunt murmured. “You cannot trust servants to do these things properly, you know.”

“But do you not wish to see the house?”

“I do, of course. Which is why you must wait and offer your guests some refreshment until I return. I'll make quick work of it.” Mrs. Bentley turned and went after the train of servants.
My niece
, she was thinking,
to be mistress here!
It was such a comfortable, encouraging thought that she left the room with a smile. In the hall a little chambermaid flitted past with a hasty curtsey. A little chambermaid that looked familiar.

It was Molly! Molly, the servant girl who had been an instrument in the theft of Ariana's letters only a few weeks earlier. Mrs. Bentley stopped and
gave the maid a disapproving eye. The little traitor! She oughn't to be kept on here, not when she was involved with such spurious dealings in the past. She made a mental note to speak to Mr. Mornay's housekeeper.

Meanwhile she had reached the bedchamber which was to be Ariana's, and discovered quickly that there were communicating doors to Mr. Mornay's bedchamber. She examined his room as well. With her practiced eye, she quickly observed the artistry and expense of the rooms, taking in the smallest details as well as the massive mahogany furniture. And the ceiling? Mrs. Bentley had to smile. Her niece was going to
adore
this room.

She set about directing the servants and seeing to the wardrobe, completely in her element. But she did not forget about Molly.

The party took advantage of its time in the drawing room to look about with a rare lack of inhibition. Was this not why they had come? To see the place, top to bottom? The beautiful marble fireplace and elegant sofa and chairs. The frescoes and carved statues and portraits on the walls.

Frederick came in with two maids who carried trays of tea and a coffee service. There were also biscuits, seed cakes, and grapes. Men and women alike were happy to sit and chat while they sipped from their gilt-edged cups and enjoyed the “damper” on the trays. Each one was exceedingly gratified to have been included. They were in the house of the Paragon! They were acquainted with Miss Forsythe, the future Mrs. Mornay. The only person who did not feel thus was Mr. O'Brien, who had fallen into a decided dejection since entering the house.

Mr. Mornay was his competition, and it was all too evident that in material things Mr. O'Brien could not compete. Worse, his family hailed from Ireland while Mr. Mornay was solidly English. He ought never to have thought seriously of winning Miss Forsythe. Yet to see her, to hear her lovely voice—and she so recently his friend—made it impossible to give her up entirely. Since she was betrothed to Mornay, he knew his lingering hopes were pointless. Miss Forsythe had made her choice. But it was most assuredly not the one he had desired.

Frederick, meanwhile, had allowed a footman to carry in a stack of pattern books from the shopkeepers, showing the newest styles of furniture, silverware, and ornaments. Each catalogue was from a different shop, and Ariana could have bespoken new draperies, wallpaper, tile, or any number of
things. Soon some of the tradesmen were there as well, for they had naughtily sneaked from belowstairs and found their way to the group.

Lavinia reached for a book and began flipping through the pages. “Ariana, join me. Look at these beautiful things!”

Ariana took a cursory look but said shortly, “I haven't seen the house fully yet. I'd like to admire what Mr. Mornay has, not pine for things he has not.”

“Oh, but let us look just for amusement. Mama never enters these shops, so I seldom get to peek at such patterns.”

Beatrice was sitting beside Mr. O'Brien and his mama, but at the sight of the pattern books, she came over in a flurry of curiosity. “I saw such books in the village once, when my mother was in want of a new tea kettle! Please let me look too!”

They leafed through page after page of furniture, all attended with the uttermost sighs of admiration from Beatrice and praises of “How elegant!” or “So commodious!” from Lavinia that even Ariana had to admit the modern styles of furniture—whether black, japanned tables or intricately carved chairs or plump sofas and settees—were all rich and luxurious and fine. She too enjoyed seeing the astonishing variety of pieces available. Grecian couches, desks with more drawers and cubicles and nooks than she could have imagined, and a vast assortment of chairs carved from mahogany or satinwood or rosewood, all rich with decoration. It was head-spinning.

The next pattern book was from a masonry shop and opened to numerous plasterwork motifs of the popular Greco-Roman mold. They saw dozens and dozens of figures, cartouches, vignettes, and busts. Greek nudes, barely clad Roman women, figures dancing, playing instruments, holding torches. Cherubs, pagan gods and goddesses; it was the sort of decoration that was all the rage, evident in the Romanesque pilasters and cornices and roundels in the very room where they sat.

“Did you ever notice, Lavinia, that the Greeks and Romans were shockingly pagan?” Ariana asked.

“
'
Tis true,” she said, “but I never gave it much thought.”

“Imagine the beauty of these designs if they were to incorporate heavenly themes.”

Lavinia gave an appreciative look at her friend. “What a novel thought! I wonder why there is no pattern book of such ideas.”

“I suppose it would not be considered Greco-Roman, which is the ideal nowadays.”

“Unfortunate, Ariana.” Lavinia said, in a droll tone. “You would have much redecorating to do if there were such a book.”

Ariana gazed off into space. Why should there not be such decorations? Why could there not be elegant winged angels in place of pagan nymphs? Or the twelve apostles instead of the Greek pantheon?

Suddenly it occurred to her that here was the very thing she could leave in the house—some small evidences of herself. Nothing too drastic or expensive, just a few small influences for Christianity rather than mythology. She felt as though a door of new possibilities had opened before her. Grosvenor Square was indeed a magnificent place, but it was all classical, all based on Grecian and Roman designs. If she could heighten the appeal of the house by incorporating Judeo-Christian artistry, might it not please Mr. Mornay? With a new excitement, Ariana started to look around as though she had never
really
looked before. It must have been providence that spurred Mrs. Bentley to send for the tradesmen. And now she, Ariana, would be able to show that she could indeed manage a fine house. Beginning with plaster-work, she was going to make changes such as would be impossible
not
to note. She would ensure that a visit to the Mornay establishment would be a memorable visit indeed!

H
alf an hour passed before Mrs. Bentley returned to the drawing room and joined the others. She was full of praise for what she had seen of the bedchambers. They were so finely appointed that it felt soul-enlightening, even to her tenured eyes. Unlike some houses of the wealthy, nothing was overdone here. All was tasteful—bits of opulence, small accents of gold paint or filigree, a bust or painting just where it should be and enough to ensure that one felt surrounded by excellent quality in furnishings but was not overwhelmed by it.

Still excited by her new idea, Ariana trailed Mrs. Hamilton with bright eyes. Miss Herley came and squeezed her hand, and she smiled back at her.

“We shall begin at the top of the house,” Mrs. Hamilton announced in a reedy voice, “and we'll work our way down until we've seen every inch of it.”

“Your plan is fine, Mrs. Hamilton,” Mrs. Bentley said. She was too used to being the one in charge and hadn't thought to allow her niece to give the approval.

“This is
so
diverting!” Lavinia gushed in a passionate whisper. “I cannot believe I am here, seeing Mr. Mornay's house!”

“You'll be here again, my dear Lavinia,” Ariana reminded her.

“Yes! Because you will live here. When we first met, did I not tell you that you would be snatched up directly? But who could have thought, then, that you would make the most brilliant match? And after we collided into Mr. Mornay! Do you recall?” She laughed afresh at the memory.

Ariana smiled. “Of course. Could I forget that?” But she turned her attention to climbing the second flight of steps, still following Mrs. Hamilton. This
floor, appearing as the third level from the street, held mostly servants' quarters, including a fine large chamber for the housekeeper and a suite of two adjoining rooms for the butler. They peeked into first one, then another, and Ariana inquired of the housekeeper whether she was comfortable in her chamber.

Mrs. Hamilton's interpretation of the question was that Miss Forsythe wished to know how
her
housekeeper would like it. Thinking quickly she answered, “We try not to mind the cold, ma'am, and the mattresses are as fine as any servant's, I warrant. I am certain all mattresses must be exceedingly hard on a body.”

Lavinia and Ariana exchanged surprised glances. Mrs. Bentley's face puckered into thought, and though she moved on with the others to miss nothing, she made a little mental note to return to the housekeeper's chamber later.

Farther down the hall, the group was peeking into the rooms for the common servants, where two or three shared the same chamber. There was nothing unusual, but Ariana had never seen communal servants' quarters and said, “It must be difficult to sleep with the beds so close together.”

Mrs. Bentley, with narrowed eyes, returned, “They are tired from a day's work, my dear. Servants fall right to sleep, I assure you.” She gave Mr. Pellham a look as if to say, “The nonsense from this child!” Ariana believed that her statement was sadly all too true.

As mistress of Grosvenor Square, she would endeavour to be the kindest of mistresses. Not so much that the servants would be emboldened to take advantage of her, but she did hope to allow them what little acts of mercy she could, while maintaining decorum and propriety.

She would have a few words with Mr. Mornay regarding the comments Mrs. Hamilton had made too. Why would he, as wealthy as he was, not allow his servants more comfortable furnishings? She supposed, thinking while they moved on, that he must be unaware of such conditions.

They skipped seeing the garret, for Mrs. Hamilton said it was mostly used for storage and descended the narrow servants' staircase to the first floor. They had to go single file and made a bit of racket on the wooden steps, but they were all in good spirits when they reached their destination.

Here were the rooms of most interest, and which held the finest luxuries: fine art, expensive trinkets, rich draperies, exquisite wallpapers, plush and beautiful furniture. They passed through a sitting room, a parlour, a small armoury, and gallery. As each room's beauty unfolded before them, Ariana's eyes fluttered with surprise.

Such a rich house! Mr. Mornay was far wealthier than she had imagined. She took a long time in the gallery, viewing the paintings. Mrs. Bentley finally had to say, “Come, my gel. You will have plenty of time in the future for study.” Farther down the hall were the bedchambers, and by now Ariana's demeanour had become quite serious. She was feeling downright daunted by her future home. Evidently people of great taste and knowledge had furnished it. How could she aspire to alter a single thing?

Mrs. Hamilton stopped at a door, her hand on the knob. “This is the Master's bedchamber,” she said, beginning to turn the handle. Ariana's heart beat strongly. Miss Herley tried to make her smile by making a face at her and opening her eyes wide.

“Are we not,” Ariana said to the housekeeper, “intruding on Mr. Mornay's privacy?”

The lady turned in surprise. “The Master instructed me to show you all of the house, ma'am.”

“You will wish to see this room, my dear,” said Mrs. Bentley.

Mrs. Hamilton led the way and then stepped to the side, as she did throughout the tour. She was not forthcoming with facts about the house or any of its possessions, and Ariana wondered at her lack of enthusiasm. There was no affection in her tone or manner, which was surprising. It was not unusual for upper servants to feel as if the house they served in was their own, and many would display all due pride when showing it. But not Mrs. Hamilton.

Thoughts of the housekeeper fled as Ariana entered the room and had to pull in her breath at the sight. In addition to watered-silk wallpaper and a large and glossy mahogany bed, the ceiling had a huge painted roundel. Against a rich blue sky with light puffs of clouds, there were heavenly angels and cherubs with musical instruments surrounding a centre of light in bright hues of yellow and gold and white. It was heavenly. It was glorious. It was—
religious
! Just the sort of thing she wished to see more of in the house.

Mrs. Bentley had been watching her reaction and had a little, knowing smile on her face. Miss Herley rushed and grasped her hand. “I should never have a night's poor sleep in such a room! You must endeavour to sleep here, Ariana, as much as possible!”

Mr. O'Brien did not turn to look at them but cleared his throat loudly. The two girls noted it and then looked at each other. Lavinia, with one hand to her mouth, stifled a giggle.

Beatrice had rushed around the room, saw the adjoining dressing room,
and came back to say, “I think Mr. Mornay is as rich as the Regent! Or perhaps richer! For the prince, I heard my father say, is always in want of money.”

Ariana was too in awe of the house—and its owner—to offer a reply. It was as though she had not known him, in a way. She had hoped to discover more about him by studying his house, but not simply that his wealth was vastly greater than she'd imagined. He was already too easily intimidating, and his recent disinterested attitude toward her only made him seem more so now. He was truly from a background that was surperior to hers, in a worldly sort of reckoning.

She looked back up at the ceiling. The angels looked serenely back at her. She tore her eyes from the room to pass through a communicating door to the next bedchamber. It was no less impressive. Whoever had designed the house had evidently understood that people liked to occasionally spend time in their bedchambers. A beautiful escritoire sat invitingly off to one side, and there was an adjoining dressing room here as well. It was lovely, indeed, but—separate bedchambers?

At home her parents shared one room. She looked back at the communicating door and felt an odd emptiness in her heart. Then a pang. Instead of feeling closer to the man she was going to marry, this day seemed to be accenting their recent lack of closeness. Did Mr. Mornay, then, not hold to the idea of a single bedchamber for the master and mistress? Despite her natural shyness of what the marriage bed represented, she felt disappointed.

Meanwhile Mrs. Herley and Mrs. O'Brien were enraptured, as they had been at every bit of the house. Mrs. Bentley was pointing out details to Mr. Pellham, who nodded and commented in turn.

Miss Herley was moving slowly around the perimeter of the room, looking over the wallpaper and furniture and accessories, as if she was in a museum. Her mother was all agog, to be sure, but there was also a slight frown between her brows, as she wondered why her Lavinia couldn't attract such a man of high standing and wealth. She eyed the expensive items in the room with a jealous eye.

Mr. O'Brien was trailing his mother and saying very little, watching Ariana a great deal but speaking mostly to Beatrice, and then only to keep her exuberance in check. And there was Mrs. Hamilton, stiff and silent, coldly watching everyone. Once again Ariana felt that strange sense of detachment. It seemed odd to her that it was close to the wedding date, and yet she had no feeling of
belonging
to the house.

Continuing on they went quickly through the remaining two guest bedchambers and then circled back to the first parlour. Ariana was keeping an eye out and now saw many pagan designs that she thought might be altered—but at the same time, she felt like a trespasser. How could she think of changing anything in such a dwelling? But then she knew she would feel more comfortable with less pagan designs surrounding her. Mr. Mornay had professed a newfound faith only two weeks earlier and at first had spoken with much enthusiasm regarding it. His love for God seemed to be growing steadily, had it not? Mr. Mornay, despite his recent reticence, would surely view the changes in the same light she did. He would welcome them. Just as he was welcoming her.

Just then the merchants came eagerly into the room. “May I suggest, ma'am,” said one man, coming at her with a stare as though he was a hunter settling upon his prey, “a lighter wallpaper in this room?” Another said, “A new carpet is the thing needed here. An Axminster, I'd respectfully suggest, ma'am.” Ariana met each remark with an expression of consideration, but she remained silent as she moved on through the room, followed closely by the merchants.

Her heart was beating palpably—if she failed to make the alterations right now, when the chance was before her, it would be because she was afraid that Mr. Mornay was indeed having a change of heart. Toward her, and even worse, perhaps toward God. Yet their history up to this time had been such that his love for her was clear and strong. She had to trust it. She had to trust that God had indeed brought them together and had good plans for their future as husband and wife.

With that thought in mind, she told herself that she had every right to bespeak a few new things for the house. The bevy of men were following her every move, suggestions ringing out regularly, but she ignored them.

A huge painted panel on the wall caught her eye, and she stopped before it. It was a masterfully executed pastoral scene, but the theme was an abundance of barely clad wood nymphs and a satyr. A picture of the Garden of Eden came to her mind. What a pleasing contrast it would be to this godless design. “Let me describe for you what I envision here,” she began, and two men jumped forward, pencils and pads in hand, prepared to take notes.

Mrs. Herley, meanwhile, was overtaken with admiration for a little miniature portrait of the king, located on a section of wall in a corner among
other small pieces of artwork. She never could believe the monarch had gone mad, though Parliament
had
voted in favour of the Regency. But such a good king! So upright a monarch! She could not help but to stretch out her gloved hand and touch the glass.

Across the room, the O'Briens had finished their inspection and were prepared to leave with Beatrice happily in tow. They said their goodbyes while Beatrice rushed at her sister for an effusive hug. Aunt Bentley said, “That's enough, Miss Beatrice! You will give your sister an ague!”