Page 1 of Mrs. Merritt’s Remorse (Lord Dere’s Dependents #2)

If any other man…conceive of a better course, let him speake.

—John Bingham, translator, The historie of Xenophon containing the ascent of Cyrus (1623)

If ever a man knew precisely what he planned to do with his life, and which steps should be gained by what means at which time, that man was Philip Egerton. Born the first of six children to an Oxfordshire parson, he took after his father in choice of profession, but only there. Where Mr. Philip Egerton, Senior, was content to shift as he might on a limited income, his oldest son had greater ambitions.

“Imagine how different my father’s life might have been, if he had only waited a few years before marriage,” he told his sister Cassandra as she measured him for the plain subfusc shirt and trousers he would wear under his Oxford gown. “Nothing excessive—say, five years. Not only would he have had more time to save income from his fellowship, but there would consequently have been fewer of us to feed, house and raise.”

“Which of us would you lop from the family tree, then?” she asked mildly around the pins in her mouth. “The oldest branches? If Papa and Mama waited to marry, you might not be here to congratulate them for doing so, and I might not be here to hear it. Or would you rather amputate the lowest limbs and remove Anna and Tim?”

“I’m not speaking of metaphysical questions but of practical matters,” he rejoined. “Even after marrying too soon Papa might yet have risen, had he exerted himself to curry favor with the archdeacon and the bishop. Instead, whenever not positively required to be in the pulpit or performing some parish duty, he has always preferred to hide in his study. Who knows what more lucrative living might have come his way, not to mention plum positions or honors, had he done otherwise.”

Unmoved, his sister jotted numbers down and switched the position of the tape. “In short, if Papa had not been Papa, he would have been someone else. One might say that of anyone.”

“Think on it, Cassie. If he did not avoid the politics of the diocese—if he listened more to my mother’s urgings, we might even now be living in a bishop’s palace with an army of servants.”

She laughed. “But then he would have been more like Mama than Papa. There’s no doubt Mama would have been an archbishop by now. But never mind. Papa is perfectly content, Philip. It’s you who would not be.” Stepping back, she clasped her hands and regarded him with mocking admiration. “Speak, Mr. Egerton! Having seen the ship of your father’s life run aground, as you embark on your own voyage, what will you do differently?”

Though he grinned at her teasing, he answered seriously enough, “In the first place, I will gain a fellowship as he did. But when I have, I will add to it as many curacies as I can scramble into, until I have gained the living Uncle Geoffrey promises or another of equal value. Only then will I marry.”

“And suppose that takes ten years, Philip?”

“Then it takes ten years. But I do not think the present vicar of St. Lawrence can possibly last that long.”

Now whipping stitches with admirable speed, Cassie shook her head fondly. “You always get what you want, so I imagine poor old Mr. Holden will give up the ghost the instant you think it convenient. Probably the moment you deign to look favorably upon some young lady.”

But here Cassandra Egerton proved less prophetic than her storied namesake, for however accommodating life had been thus far to young Philip Egerton, it then began to “yeild to fickle Chance,” as Milton phrased it. For the very week he matriculated at Christ Church, the vicar of St. Lawrence Church was prematurely gathered to his fathers!

Here was a to-do.

Though Geoffrey Cottrell fully intended the living for his nephew, the raw youth had only just begun at Oxford and was years from his degree. Mr. Cottrell therefore did the next best thing: calculating as carefully as an actuary at an assurance company, he chose a gouty, middle-aged successor who might safely be expected to expire within five to seven years. At the very least, if the selected man insisted on drawing out his existence, by that period he would certainly be infirm enough to require a curate, and Philip could begin there.

But another fickle Chance followed.

It came to pass that the new vicar Mr. Spacks took such a liking to the setting of St. Lawrence Church that he began to walk daily in all weathers, until he was as common a sight in the country lanes as the similarly attired blackbirds. With such habitual exercise, Spacks grew as slim as those same birds, his gout entirely resolving and the health of his youth returning. Very good news for the vicar, but less so for Philip Egerton once he had taken his fellowship and begun to look about him for the next rung on the ladder.

And finally, the third fickle Chance was the death of his uncle’s dear friend, who in his will entrusted as ward to Geoffrey Cottrell one Miss Felicity Hynde. One glimpse of Miss Hynde’s golden hair and round blue eyes—one enchanted evening in her company (in which she hung on his words with flattering fascination)—and the newly chosen fellow of Christ Church found himself cursing Mr. Spacks’s endurance and rethinking how much money was absolutely necessary for a young couple to begin in life. Sweet, charming, innocent Miss Hynde, raised in isolation by a succession of severe governesses in the Devonian hinterlands! (The late Mr. Hynde had chosen Geoffrey Cottrell as her guardian, in fact, because Cottrell’s spinster daughter Martha so reminded him of all those severe governesses.) What would it be like, Philip wondered, to claim such an angel for his own?

He was too hard-headed to cast practicality to the winds, however. Rather, he bit back any rash endearments which might escape him in the presence of his Ideal and began to seek opportunities to improve his situation. He haunted the senior common room to consult his colleagues; he accosted his father in his study; he wrote letters; he made himself agreeable. And soon his efforts yielded his first curacy.

“Look here,” said the senior Philip Egerton one Sunday during the summer holidays as he read his post. “Old Terry says he and his wife plan to avail themselves of the peace and seek warmer climes until next summer. What would you say to taking his duties in his absence?”

“Where?” demanded his son, his head snapping up as if he would order his trunk packed at once.

“Church of St. Mary the Virgin in Iffley. A mere five miles from here and half as many from Tom Quad at Christ Church, so you might continue your fellowship duties,” said his father. “Better yet, Terry offers the use of the rectory, saving you the cost of lodgings. It’s only seven months, but—”

“But it’s better than nothing,” Egerton finished. “I’ll take it.”

“Yes, yes.” His father sighed. “Poor Terry and his wife never did have any children, though the size of the rectory and the living would have allowed for both. Instead he has always taken in a few pupils. He writes that if you did not wish to teach, the ‘two Tommies’ might be sent to school in Oxford, but he would feel easier if they were not subject to such disruption.”

“I will teach them,” answered Egerton promptly. “Does he mention the pay?”

The senior Egerton peered at the letter in his hand through his spectacles. “He does. With the pupils he offers ￡50 for the seven months. Without them, ￡35. Quite unexceptionable of Terry. Even generous.”

“Very,” his son agreed, his normally intent gaze uncharacteristically distant. He was making calculations in his head, the columns of numbers shivering like fringe on a curtain, now drawing back to reveal…Miss Hynde. The peerless Miss Hynde, pacing steadily toward him, wreathed in bridal flowers.

“…Cassie might go with you to keep house,” his father mused. “It would be almost a holiday for her, after tending your mother and Anna and Tim through their recent sickness. And then you might pool her little allowance with your pay and be almost wealthy people.”

Shaking off his distraction, Philip immediately saw the sense in the suggestion.

Yes, Cassie should accompany him. If he could not yet claim Miss Hynde as a helpmate, Cassie would do very well.

Thumping a fist on the tablecloth, he lifted his chin. Here, at last, was his future resuming its orderly march!

“Shall you write to him, sir, or shall I?”