Page 14 of Mrs. Merritt’s Remorse (Lord Dere’s Dependents #2)

She sees defamed Glory, wronged Right.

— Edward Benlowes, Theophila; or, Loves sacrifice (1652)

Jane did not walk directly home from the rectory. How could she, when tears threatened and she was most certainly red in the face?

Why should you be surprised? she demanded of herself. Why should you think a few weeks’ acquaintance enough to make him—make anyone —forget the past?

In Mr. Egerton’s book, a woman who could fall in love and run away with an imprudent man must ever after guard herself against every passing rogue, lest she repeat her mistakes. In Mr. Egerton’s book, Jane Merritt, having proved herself reckless, must be protected henceforth from her own poor judgment. She could not be trusted to have repented, to have grown, to have learned.

As if I could like a scoundrel like Mr. Beck! With his gaming stories and dueling stories and London stories! With his unpleasant friends and his poor Archie Wilson in tow! Roger, at least, was as innocent as he was foolish, until he met with disappointment. Jane ripped leaves from the hedges as she marched past, shame at what the curate thought of her shifting to anger with Mr. Beck. Why did he have to come to Iffley and cause her trouble? Why did he not stay in London with his ilk, where they might find all the amusement they craved?

Cutting across the Upper Field, Jane seethed and stamped, stamped and seethed, somehow keeping her footing, though the ground was uneven and stubbled after the harvest. She might have wandered for miles, had her ear not caught the sound of riders, at which she halted abruptly. Good heavens! What was she about? She had never walked so long or so far alone since coming to Iffley and had better return home before her mother sent Frances in search.

Turning on her heel, she began to retrace her steps, expecting the sound of the horses’ hooves to fade. Instead the riders came onward, leaving the common sheep-way for the very field in which she walked. When they were abreast of her, Jane could not do otherwise than look up, and she was not a jot pleased to see the very Mr. Beck she had been castigating in her mind, accompanied by his toady Mr. Hardy.

“Why, it’s you, Mrs. Merritt, on this fine afternoon,” Mr. Beck greeted her, touching the brim of his hat. “Hardy and I wondered what young lady would be abroad on her own, but now it all makes sense. After all, a lady, once married, may go where she pleases.”

“That’s right,” seconded Hardy, chuckling. “A lady once married.”

Jane’s reply was crisp. “Yes, indeed. I sought not only fresh air but solitude.”

So broad a hint could not be overlooked, and Hardy’s foolish smile grew uncertain. He glanced at his friend for guidance, but Jane was already regretting her bad manners. She might not like Mr. Beck (and by extension anyone who flattered him), but there was nothing to be gained by rudeness.

“I was just returning to Iffley Cottage,” she resumed, in a softer tone, “and really must be on my way, or my mother will wonder at my tardiness.”

To her dismay, her repentance was immediately punished by Mr. Beck dismounting to walk beside her.

“What rotten luck of mine,” he said gaily. “When I am driving my gig, I nearly finish you, but when I would like to offer you a ride, that you might be home the sooner, I am entirely gig-less.”

As he delivered this sally, Mr. Hardy sprang down on her other side, intending to play the fellow gallant, but his boot landed awkwardly on the uneven ground. Staggering, he lunged for the nearest support, which happened to be Jane’s person. Her smaller, lighter person. With a yelp, she nearly toppled over, only to have her other arm seized by Mr. Beck, who gave an equal and opposite jerk, suspending her like a bone between two hungry dogs.

In fact, that was precisely what Jane looked like, in the opinion of Mrs. Markham Dere, who was driving her pony cart along Church Way. Dragging the pony to an immediate halt, the good woman waved her crop and shouted, “Holla there! You! What are you about? Stop that at once, or I will call the constable!”

While the threesome was too far away for Mrs. Dere to identify them, Jane recognized both the pony cart and the voice at once, and what had already been a bad quarter of an hour now received an additional flourish.

“If you will excuse me, gentlemen,” she uttered firmly, “I will take care of this.” Shaking herself from their grasp, she squared her shoulders and marched in the direction of their inquisitor, because the only alternative to facing Mrs. Dere would be to flee and try to beat the pony cart to the cross-way, but the odds of that were so low it hardly qualified as an alternative. Therefore she accepted her fate, not even looking back to acknowledge Mr. Beck’s and Mr. Hardy’s farewells, though she was relieved to hear them remount and ride away.

“Why—can that be you, Mrs. Merritt?” demanded Mrs. Dere, when Jane drew nearer.

“It is, madam.”

“Oh! My word. My, my word.” Mrs. Dere pursed her lips, until she remembered she was a handsome woman of a certain age and that pursing her lips might cause lines to form. Then she switched to clicking her tongue ruefully. “You had better climb up with me, Mrs. Merritt, and I will take you home.”

“Thank you, madam, but I am nearly there already.”

“Climb up with me, Mrs. Merritt. I have something to say to you.”

Swallowing a sigh, Jane obeyed, and if she could possibly have spared any pity, she would have felt sorry for the pony Chauncey, who must now pull her additional weight. But no—Jane could only brace herself for another lecture, and Chauncey must bear his own fardels.

She was not a bit surprised when the cart reached the cross-way and Mrs. Dere steered away from the village to follow the common, which in those days had not yet been enclosed. As poor Chauncey was a mere thirteen hands high and plump with easy living, he did not set a thundering pace even when he had only Mrs. Dere to haul, and Jane feared that if the lecture did not begin at once they would have to make the long loop past Perryfield, rather than turning when they caught Church Way again. Therefore, it was she who spoke first.

“Mrs. Dere, I was returning home from a walk, and it was only chance which took the gentlemen across my path.”

“Mm,” said her companion with aggravating vagueness. An ‘mm’ like that could mean anything but most likely meant, If that is your story, it is not a very believable one.

“I did not ask Mr. Beck—for it was Mr. Beck and his friend Mr. Hardy you saw—to accompany me, nor to dismount and walk beside me,” Jane persevered, “but they did so in any event. When Mr. Hardy dismounted, he lost his footing and grabbed my arm, nearly pulling me over. Mr. Beck only took my other arm to keep me from falling. And that is when you called to us.”

This drew an “I see” from Mrs. Dere so drawn out that Jane knew she did not see at all. And then poor Chauncey, after his effort to set the heavier cart in motion, heard his mistress’ “whoa” and must clop to a halt once more.

Turning on the little bench seat, Mrs. Dere gazed frankly into Jane’s face, and Jane felt herself blush though she had done nothing wrong.

“Mrs. Merritt,” began Mrs. Dere ominously, “it pains me to say this, but I feel it my duty.”

Jane swallowed. Said nothing. Wished herself miles away.

“Though you are a widow as I am, and we are allowed more freedoms than are generally accorded to young unmarried ladies, I think it unwise to…court gossip by wandering alone in places where you might come to grief. Why—for an instant there, I thought you were some foolish young miss taken up by kidnappers! What else was I to assume, when I saw you stumbling around, grappling with strange men?”

“Grappling”!

“Madam! This is Iffley—hardly the Seven Dials,” Jane could not forbear saying.

She regretted it at once, for Mrs. Dere shut her eyes for a long moment against such horrors. “Mrs. Merritt,” she resumed with a sad shake of her lovely head, “your familiarity with the—rougher—parts of London far exceeds mine. I hesitate to remind you of the dreadful incidents and places in your recent past—”

“I need no reminder of them,” Jane broke in, feeling her temper rise in spite of herself. “And the closest I ever came to the Dials was to ride in a hackney coach along Oxford Street into Holborn. You must pardon me—I referred to the place only in jest.”

Perhaps because Mrs. Dere herself was not so familiar with town, either the good or the unsavory districts, or because she still resented the baron taking Jane and her older sister shopping and to meet the bishop of London two years prior, she passed over this.

“My point being,” she rejoined, “a woman with your experiences can never be too careful to…shield and preserve what remains of her reputation. Mr. Beck is handsome and amusing, I grant you, but I would counsel you especially to be on your guard—”

“Pardon me,” Jane interrupted for the second time, her hands now balled into fists as she pictured wresting Mrs. Dere’s riding crop from her and whacking her over the head with it, “but you may rest easy on my account. I have no interest whatsoever in Mr. Beck—or anyone, for that matter—so your warnings, though I’m certain they are kindly meant, are wasted upon me. But—again—I thank you. Now, if you don’t mind, I think I will climb down and continue homeward.”

While Jane’s words might have been polite enough, there was no mistaking the sparks in her eyes, and Mrs. Dere naturally took umbrage. This miss who was no better than she should be—this—this runaway creature who had married the worst sort of blackguard—a girl who might not know the Seven Dials but who certainly knew the inside of the Fleet Prison!—did such a person dare to give her such a look! It was not to be borne. She was Mrs. Markham Dere, niece by marriage to Baron Dere and mother of the heir, a lady of spotless reputation and high character. And were her pearls of wisdom to be trampled upon by this ungrateful, unrepentant, unredeemed, un- anything slip of a person? Why, if not for her fondness for Miss Frances Barstow (and her son Peter’s for Master Gordon), the whole family at Iffley Cottage might be tossed in the Thames, for all Mrs. Dere cared.

And while Mrs. Dere might not have spoken a single one of her thoughts aloud, neither could Jane mistake the outraged lift of her eyebrows and iron stiffening of her person. And Jane too thought of her sister Frances and brother Gordon and every other Barstow dependent on the goodwill of the baron and Mrs. Dere. And admitted bitterly to herself that—truly—in the last analysis, what had Mrs. Dere (or Mr. Egerton, upon reflection) said to her which she had not, at some time, said to herself?

“Mrs. Dere,” Jane began again, calling on all her strength to say the words, “I have been rash, and I ask you—to pardon me. I wish you would believe me, that you can never reproach me more harshly nor thoroughly than I have reproached myself, but I hope you will understand it is less easy to bear when coming from another.”

To Mrs. Dere’s everlasting credit, despite her own vexation, she could hear the sincerity in Jane’s speech now and even admitted, Well, if I had as many blots on my conscience as she has, I daresay I’d find it mortal unpleasant to remember, day and night.

Taking as deep a breath as Jane had, she replied, “Yes, I can see that. But I’ve spoken my mind now, so I will try to refrain in the future from touching upon the subject, except to say, do be careful, Mrs. Merritt. And there is no need to go off in a huff. I will drive you.” Here she clicked her tongue at Chauncey, tapping his rump with her crop, and the good little pony lumbered into motion again.

“I had just come from calls at the Cottage and rectory when I saw you, Mrs. Merritt,” Mrs. Dere continued, “because I invited you all to the welcome dinner. We will have quite the giddy whirl in the coming weeks, for that charming Miss Hynde informed me that the Egertons intend to host a musical evening. Did Mr. Beck happen to mention a date for the Greenwood ball?”

“He did not. Really, madam, they came upon me a bare minute before you saw us.”

“All right, all right,” Mrs. Dere said placatingly. “I intended to call at Greenwood Hall next, in any event, and, if the gentlemen are still out, perhaps Mrs. Rowland can tell me.”

True to her word, no more unpleasantness passed Mrs. Dere’s lips than was usual in her company, and Jane was shortly home again to pretend delight in all the proposed gatherings. But it was much longer before she felt any peace after such a tumultuous morning.

It was only the following day, as she sat at her work, that she heard her mother say, “Frances, whatever are you working on? We promised Mrs. Dere those shirts for the poor basket.”

“Oh, Mama,” she protested, “I have made two shirts already, and if you all are sewing them as well, it’s not as if Iffley is overrun with poor people.”

Sarah leaned over to inspect the fine white muslin in Frances’ lap. “That is very pretty lace you are adding.”

“Thank you. I intend to sew a new ribbon over the waist as well, and then, voilà! A new gown for the Perryfield dinner. I’m afraid I will have to wear it again for the ball, but perhaps Jane might let me borrow her blue?”

“Certainly,” answered Jane, sewing steadily, “because no one would notice if I turned up in a tarpaulin.”

“One person might notice,” her sister replied.

“Do you mean Mrs. Dere?” asked her mother.

“Oh, right—two people might notice, then,” Frances amended. “But I meant Mr. Beck, Mama.”

“Frances thinks Mr. Beck looks at me,” explained Jane, more to make short work of the subject than to enlarge upon it. “Which, if true, makes no difference whatsoever. Frances and I decided he must either flirt with Miss Egerton, Miss Hynde, or Mrs. Dere to amuse himself.”

“ You decided,” retorted Frances. “Though he did not seem keen at the card party to get started with any of them. And, as for me, Mr. Beck hardly remarked whether I was alive or dead! Which was so tiresome because I would very much like to be flirted with.”

With her mother and Sarah on hand, Jane need not issue any further warnings about Mr. Beck’s unsuitability, and it was some balm to her soul to see Frances flare up under persecution.

“I didn’t say I wanted to marry him, Mama!” Frances huffed. “I only said I wanted to be flirted with. Honestly, what a fuss. If Miss Hynde over at the rectory dared to admire Mr. Beck or sew fresh trimming on her dress, I daresay she would not be rapped on the knuckles as hard as I have been.”

Even to this Jane contributed nothing, though she could not help agreeing inwardly, No, but only because Mr. Egerton saved all his knuckle-rapping for me .