Page 13 of Mrs. Merritt’s Remorse (Lord Dere’s Dependents #2)

I have been blown out of your gates with sighs.

—Shakespeare, Coriolanus, V.ii.3433 (c.1605)

“Felicity, my dear, I beg you,” said Cassandra Egerton at the breakfast table, after their young guest released her third, prolonged, luxurious sigh. Inclining her head a fraction toward the foot of the table, Cassie tried to remind her of the boys’ presence, which Miss Hynde was too apt to overlook.

However little Miss Hynde dwelt upon the rectory pupils, the same could not be said for the Tommies. As Cassie had noted, Felicity’s arrival had burst upon not only adolescent Tom Ellis like a coup de foudre , but also upon younger Tommy Wardour, and the two lads were apt to stare at her, mouths agape, whenever they found themselves in the same room. They were doing so now as she sighed and sighed and dreamily buttered her roll. At least little Archie Wilson seemed to have kept his head or his heart, whichever it was, Cassie thought with her own inward sigh, or Felicity’s conquest would have been unanimous.

But she must take comfort where she could, and Cassie admitted that Philip’s continued sensibleness came as a vast relief. Her brother neither sighed nor stared. Perhaps he smiled a little more often, and if Felicity tried his temper as she did Cassie’s, he hid it thoroughly. Cassie doubted he had even noticed the girl’s sighing.

In this assumption she was mistaken.

Egerton had, in fact, been debating whether to ask Miss Hynde if anything troubled her. She did not appear troubled; she appeared happy. Not that that would be any more reassuring.

“I do apologize, Cassie,” said Miss Hynde (with a fourth—more abbreviated—sigh). “I was only thinking how very delightful the card party was.”

“D-D-D-Did you win?” asked Tom Ellis, this bold effort making all the blood rush to his face.

Miss Hynde blinked as if her cup of chocolate had spoken to her, before rousing herself with a little shake and turning to note his existence. “Why, no, I don’t think so. Not a farthing. I may even have lost a few shillings.”

“Then why was it delightful?” Tommy Wardour ventured, feeling superior to the older boy because he managed to speak fluently and without turning the color of a boiled lobster. And Miss Hynde even smiled upon him!

“It was…the company,” she replied. And if ever a voice sounded like someone hugging herself, it was Felicity Hynde’s. Turning her glowing eyes to Cassie she murmured, “Wasn’t he something?”

“Oh, dear,” gulped Miss Egerton, trying her very best not to glance at her brother. Poor Philip! Suppose Felicity’s visit led not to her falling in love with him but with Mr. Beck! Not to mention, here sat Mr. Beck’s charge not five feet from her. But Archie was young—he likely was paying no attention, or, if he was, he just as likely did not know to whom Miss Hynde referred.

Cassie’s second mistake.

“Do you mean my guardian?” piped up that same Archie. This contribution was startling in itself, for, though Egerton had told the truth in saying Archie grew less shy around them, he only meant Archie no longer hid under the furniture. The boy still spoke only when spoken to, when replies could not be avoided.

Miss Hynde’s hands flew to her lips, as if she only this moment remembered Archie’s connection to Mr. Beck. “Goodness!” she squeaked.

“The ladies always make a fuss over him, my mama once said.”

Then Cassie did look at her brother and he at her. Archie Wilson had known his mother? And though everyone at the table would have liked the boy to say more, he went back to the sandwich he had made of cold meat and buttered roll.

Miss Hynde’s curiosity overpowered her scruples, however, and she waited for him to swallow before asking, “Were your mother and Mr. Beck well acquainted, Archie?”

The boy shrugged. “I don’t know, but Mama wanted money, and he said, what had happened to the money he already gave her? Mama cried a lot, and he gave her more and went away.”

“Goodness,” breathed Miss Hynde again as two and two made four. She now stared at him as hard as the two Tommies ever stared at her, perhaps trying to trace a resemblance in Archie’s round face and snub nose.

Before Cassie resorted to kicking her brother beneath the table to do something or say something, for heaven’s sake, he roused himself. “At least hosting his card party was a net profit for Mr. Beck,” he said, in a good imitation of nonchalance. “For I believe Miss Hynde was not the only loser. The evening cost me a half-crown. What about you, Cassie?”

“I lost at whist and gained at vingt-un, which left me as I began.”

“Mr. Beck was quite skillful at Speculation,” said Miss Hynde. “Twice he convinced me to part with my trump card in the hopes of turning up a better, and he even persuaded Mrs. Dere to purchase one of his face-down cards to protect her trump, though she held a knave, and the king had been played in the previous hand. I suppose she had forgotten. But though he carried all before him, I did not mind a bit, for I won something better.”

“And what was that?” asked Egerton with trepidation.

“Why, the promise of a ball!” she exclaimed. “Speculation is so noisy that you must not have heard it, but I asked him what other amusements he planned for Mr. Rowland, and Mrs. Dere interposed to say that she intended to have a welcome dinner at Perryfield in honor of all the newcomers. And I said maybe we might have a little music at the rectory—because mightn’t we? It would be so easy. Cassie and I could play, Philip! Mr. Beck praised both ideas and said it must be the spirit of Speculation driving him, but he would stake a private ball, if Mrs. Dere would be so good as to help him with the guest list.” Clasping her hands, she beamed upon the table at large. “He asked Mrs. Dere if she would lead the ball with him, as she is the first-ranked lady in Iffley—”

“He has certainly guessed who to make up to,” Cassie interjected dryly. “Another half hour of this and I suspect so-and-so’s influence on Master Peter Dere would be considered an unqualified good.”

“Who is ‘so-and-so’?” demanded Tommy Wardour.

“We would go to the ball, of course, wouldn’t we, Philip?” pleaded Miss Hynde. “Or Cassie and I might, mayn’t we, if you are not the dancing sort of clergyman?”

“I am very much the dancing sort of clergyman,” answered Egerton, so stiffly that his sister almost giggled in spite of herself. “Even if I were not, I would consider it my duty to my uncle to attend, as you are in Iffley under my aegis.”

This unintentional pomposity was no way to win a heart such as Felicity Hynde’s, not when she had been admiring the dashing Mr. Beck, and she almost gave a giggle of her own. But she succeeded in disguising this as a species of nasal congestion, quickly pulling out her handkerchief to dab at her nose. “Thank you, sir.”

The clock chimed, and Egerton blurted, “Off you go, boys. You may begin the translations I set out for you, Tom and Tommy, and for you, Archie, I left something to copy.”

The silver clattered; the chairs scraped; the door of the dining room opened and shut.

“Felicity,” Egerton began again, aware of a prickle of dread at the task before him, “I had better say that a little caution regarding Mr. Beck might be in order.”

“Ooh—here comes another of your warnings. Is he dangerous too, then?” she asked brightly. “Dear me. First Mrs. Merritt, and now Mr. Beck? Who knew Iffley held such perils?”

He flushed. “Felicity—”

“Yes, yes, I understand. Your duty to my uncle and all.”

“Philip means to say that my uncle Geoffrey would hardly look kindly on Mr. Beck’s—er—youthful escapades,” Cassie tried to help.

“Or Mrs. Merritt’s ‘youthful escapades,’ presumably,” returned Miss Hynde, her soft little chin sharpening in unexpected resistance.

“Mrs. Merritt has nothing to do with Mr. Beck,” Egerton said shortly.

“Not yet she doesn’t,” sniffed Miss Hynde. “But, if I’m not mistaken, she too might benefit from this warning.”

“What do you mean?”

She raised innocent eyebrows. “Oh, nothing at all. Only that I do not think Mrs. Merritt was blind to him, let us say. And though you are not responsible to Mr. Cottrell for Mrs. Merritt’s welfare or reputation, does she not still have a claim on you as a member of your flock?” When neither of her companions replied at once, she shrugged. “I understand. Mrs. Merritt I am welcome to know—she and Cassie even call each other by their Christian names—but Mr. Beck I must keep at arm’s length.”

“Mrs. Merritt poses no danger to you.” The curate spoke this through gritted teeth, scarcely able to comprehend where the morning had gone wrong. It was as if a downy kitten had bared her teeth and bit through his skin as he stroked it.

“No danger,” she repeated, sliding back her chair and rising. “But suppose I did not choose to keep Mr. Beck at arm’s length? Suppose I, like Mrs. Merritt, refused to heed others’ warnings?”

Egerton had risen from courtesy, and Cassie’s lips parted to express something of her shock at this manner of speaking, but Miss Hynde would not stay to hear it. At the door she said, “I will not be joining your lesson with the children today, Cassie. For my own safety I am going to keep away from Mrs. Merritt and write a letter to Martha. Good morning to you both.”

“My!” breathed Cassie, when they were alone. “What on earth? Who knew sweet little Felicity could speak to us thus? That she could think thus?”

A deep frown marred her brother’s handsome brow. “It comes as a shock to me as well, Cassie. I made a botch of that. Who could blame her for rejoicing at the prospect of a ball, especially after the last few months spent living with my cousin Martha?” He sighed. “Surely it would have been better to let the precautions wait until we saw a greater possibility of harm.”

“Possibly, possibly,” fretted Cassie, “but it was not your fault alone, Philip. I started it, but I could not help myself, with Archie sitting there, unwittingly proclaiming his mother’s relationship with—”

“Yes.”

“She will not do anything, do you suppose?” Cassie persisted.

“Besides write to Martha, you mean?”

His sister pulled a face. “Let us hope that was an empty threat. Because what would be the point of telling Martha she had been introduced to a—rake and a—a woman like Mrs. Merritt?”

“Don’t even speak of them in the same breath,” he commanded sharply. “There is a very great difference between one who—feels remorse for her deeds—and another so utterly careless of the world’s opinion. It almost makes one want to throw Archie back at him! If it’s a matter of indifference to Beck that he kept a mistress or fathered a bastard, why should the rest of us bear the embarrassment or see to the consequences?”

“Oh, Philip!”

But he held up a hand, already shaking his head. “Of course I don’t mean that about Archie, Cass. It’s not his fault. I’m merely venting my spleen. Yes, we were stupid this morning. We should have simply held our tongues. And we will do so, from now on. We will even have the musical evening she wants, to demonstrate our goodwill. Though we have made her defensive, she has more sense than to feed a tendre for the man simply because she has been warned against him.”

After witnessing Miss Hynde’s unexpected outburst, doubt prevented Cassie from offering any definite assurances, but seeing his lips disappear in an unhappy line, she hastened to say, “If it’s any comfort, Philip, even were Felicity to nurture inadvisable feelings for Mr. Beck, he did not seem inclined to reciprocate. That is, I did not think him flirtatious with her.”

“That’s right,” he agreed, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. “It was Mrs. Dere he sought to flatter.”

“Yes. Not from any interest in her, I suspect, but in order to seal his social acceptance in Iffley.” His sister smiled to see his features relax, only to undo all her work the next moment when she said, “If you ask me, flirtation-wise, Mr. Beck seemed more interested in Mrs. Merritt then either Mrs. Dere or Felicity.” Folding her napkin neatly and nodding to Polly, who entered with a tray for clearing, Cassie failed to see the effect of her words. Instead she hurried to the mirror above the mantel to make herself neat. “Heavens! Jane and the children will be here any moment. But do you think, Philip, that out of all that was said there was a kernel of useful truth? Ought I to warn Mrs. Merritt against him?”

Her eyes sought his in the glass, but he was staring at the bare cloth while Polly scraped it for crumbs.

“No,” he said at last. “I had better do it. As Felicity remarked, Mrs. Merritt is a member of my flock. Send her to my study when you have finished with the lessons.”

Sometime later, his pupils set to their work and a book of sermons open upon his desk, Egerton heard a timid knock. After Felicity’s excitability at breakfast, such quietness from Mrs. Merritt should not have caused his pulse to race, but apparently his pulse would do what it pleased. It must be because of the disagreeable task which lay ahead.

“Enter.”

“Cassie said you wished to speak with me.”

“Yes, Mrs. Merritt, good morning. Won’t you sit down? How did Harry and the Cramthorpes fare today?”

A genuine smile bloomed on her face. “They have all learned their alphabet and we began with some simple words: cat, rat, bat, and so on. Harry is the quickest, and when he thought of ‘fat’ and ‘mat’ all by himself, even he could not hide his delight.” Her gaze traveling quickly over the cozy room she added, “I had thought Miss Hynde might be with you because she did not join us this morning.”

“Ahem. Er—no. She had a letter to write.” He lay down his pen knife because he was fiddling with it.

“Miss Hynde is so charming, she must have many school friends to write to,” she said, folding her hands in her lap.

A cloud fleeted over his brow because Egerton realized he had not the least idea who Miss Hynde’s friends were. “Oh. Yes. To be sure. Though she had governesses, not school. And—and you, Mrs. Merritt? Did you go away to school? Or did you have a governess?”

“Neither. My father taught us all himself, along with a few pupils, as you have at the rectory.” Biting her lip, she rearranged her hands so that the other was placed on top. “Forgive me, Mr. Egerton, but I would be more comfortable if we—if you—were to tell me what you wanted to say. Perhaps it is my unfortunate history, but I cannot help feeling uneasy in situations like these—waiting for a figure of authority to address me, I mean to say.”

“Figure of authority!”

“Yes, of course.” Lifting her eyes to his, she said, “You are, in Mr. Terry’s absence, our priest, sir.”

Suddenly he felt old and bearded and patriarchal. Was this what she thought of him? That, like a warden or offended deity, he sought to punish her for some transgression?

“I did not—that is—let me relieve your mind, then,” he stammered. “I have no reproach to make, Mrs. Merritt. Rather—I meant rather to…caution you.”

She stared. “Is there something in my recent conduct which alarms you?”

“No,” he said decisively. “Nothing at all of that nature.”

“What, then?”

“I only mean to warn you against…fostering a—friendship—with someone like Mr. Beck.”

To Egerton’s knowledge, Mrs. Merritt had had no more to do with Beck than courtesy demanded, apart from being nearly killed by the man’s gig; thus he half expected her to blaze up as Miss Hynde had. Even Felicity only accused Beck of flirting with Mrs. Merritt, not Mrs. Merritt of flirting with Beck.

But however out of order his warning had been, Mrs. Merritt did not blaze up. In fact, she diminished.

“I—see,” she said, scarcely audible. Egerton could see her throat working. “Thank you, sir, for your…concern, though I assure you from the bottom of my heart that there is no need for it. Not in the least . And—and I hope my continuing conduct will alleviate your fears. It is a hard thing to earn trust again, after one has broken it, but, if my assurances carry no weight now, perhaps they will—increasingly—as others come to know me better. Even as I have come to know myself. Good—good day to you.”

Before he could say that—wait—on second thought, perhaps he had been rash to raise the subject, and could she possibly strike the last ten minutes from her memory?—she was gone.

Egerton dropped breathlessly back into his chair as if his legs had been chopped from under him. He felt like a brute. A breathless brute.

It could not have been plainer that she interpreted his warning as mistrust—and hadn’t it been? She received it as an aspersion on her character—but—but—wasn’t her character as streaked as a tiger’s pelt, and all through her own doing?

There was no way such a conversation could have gone pleasantly, but then why did he feel as if it could hardly have gone worse?