Page 15 of Mrs. Merritt’s Remorse (Lord Dere’s Dependents #2)

Tut, tut, thou art all ice, thy kindness freezeth.

— Shakespeare, Richard III, IV.ii.2605 (c.1592)

Though she had not done anything wrong, for the days following her double chastisement Jane reverted to her earlier habit of keeping to Iffley Cottage. The parish school lessons could not be avoided, but on those days she ensured her arrival coincided with that of Harry Barbary and the Cramthorpes, and she escaped home as soon as she could, making excuses when Cassie invited her to linger. Nor could church be avoided, but there Jane persisted in wearing Sarah’s veil and clinging to her sister-in-law like a barnacle to a ship’s hull. When the Deres or Cassie and Miss Hynde called at the cottage, Jane was found in the parlor with the rest of the Barstows, but a visit from Mr. Beck and Mr. Hardy she escaped by dashing upstairs and pleading a headache.

“Mr. Beck was sorry to hear you were unwell,” Frances informed her with a roll of her eyes when Jane stole back down. “And he hopes you will recover in time for the Perryfield dinner. You will, won’t you? Or do you intend to dodge that too?”

She did not.

When the Dere coach drew up before the house the next Thursday, Jane took her place within, though she was startled to learn from the Perryfield footman that they would also be picking up the Egertons and Miss Hynde.

“Mr. Egerton said he could ride up with Ogle so there would be six in the coach,” said the second groom Harker.

“Thank goodness the rain stopped,” Mrs. Barstow returned as she moved closer to Jane to make room for Sarah on their bench, “or Mr. Egerton would have had an uncomfortable time of it.”

Sarah agreed, but Jane fought a ridiculous twinge of envy for Ogle. The rain had indeed stopped, leaving a clear and sparklingly cold night for a drive. How lovely it would be to sit beside Mr. Egerton under the stars, the warmth of his person as solid and reassuring as his character. Apart from at a distance in church, she had not seen the curate since their uncomfortable parley, though he had never been far from her thoughts. Lucky Miss Hynde, to have such a heart as his waiting there, hers for the claiming!

If Miss Hynde shared this opinion she hid it well, however, beaming at them as she climbed in a minute later and crowing, “How thoughtful of Mrs. Dere to place all these blankets and bricks! Aren’t you glad you aren’t a gentleman, so you don’t have to offer to take the outside seat?”

On her mettle after Greenwood Hall’s card party, Mrs. Dere had ordered more lights than usual, the windows casting a glow upon the drive and the landau already standing before the entry. Jane, too, was prepared and almost glad to see Beck’s party had preceded theirs. For she intended to put on a show of her own. A quiet, decisive one which would lay to rest the fears of the interfering. She would not be rude if it could be avoided, but nothing in her words or manner would encourage Mr. Beck. If the Mr. Egertons and Mrs. Deres of the world could never approve of Jane Merritt again, at least she would give them no future grounds for dis approval.

This design was tried at once, the moment she removed her wraps in the entrance hall.

“Mrs. Merritt,” cried Mr. Beck with an elegant bow, “I need not ask if you have recovered from your headache, for your blooming looks speak volumes.”

“Thank you,” she told his left ear. To her vexation, she felt her face warm, but it was only because Mr. Beck’s remark drew looks from those nearest, among them Mr. Egerton. Whether he too thought her blooming was impossible to say, for his expression was impassive and his look lasted no longer than an eyeblink.

Frances looped an arm through hers, whispering mischievously, “If I stay close to you all evening, Mr. Beck will have to address me too. Love me, love my dog.”

Had Jane wished to ensnare Mr. Beck, she would have been quite frustrated, for Mrs. Dere seated her where she imagined she would come to the least harm: between Lord Dere and Mrs. Barstow, and across from the somnolent Mr. Rowland. Indeed, maintaining a steady flow of talk at their end of the table proved impossible, and they must seek further down, where Mrs. Dere, Mr. Beck, and Mrs. Rowland talked enough for all. Frances must have been happy, for being Mrs. Dere’s favorite, she was placed at the woman’s left hand, immediately across from Mr. Beck, but with true Frances instincts, she knew her patroness would frown upon any attempts to address the man, and she kept fairly mum. Mr. Egerton sat halfway along the table, flanked by Mrs. Rowland and Miss Hynde, and while Jane would have been surprised if he conversed at any length with Mrs. Rowland, she was equally surprised to see how little he and Miss Hynde spoke. Indeed, Miss Hynde spent much of the meal looking past her would-be suitor and tuning her silences, her smiles, her murmurs, and her chuckles to whatever Mr. Beck was saying or doing.

Jane could not call it a successful mingling of groups, and after a while she gave an inward shrug and turned her metaphorical back on them, spending the remainder of the time putting quiet questions to the baron and answering his.

When the apple tart was consumed the ladies rose, leaving the gentlemen to their port and politics, but in the drawing room Mrs. Dere assured them the wait would not be long. “I told the baron we would have some music with our tea or hear poetry read, so he was not to dawdle, and I certainly do not want the dining room to reek of smoke when they are done.”

“Philip doesn’t smoke, for one,” his sister Cassie offered.

“And the baron rarely,” agreed Mrs. Dere. “Though he keeps a box of cheroots to offer guests.”

“Alexander and Hardy and my dear husband will make short work of those,” Mrs. Rowland said dryly. “The dining room curtains at Greenwood already smell like a chimney sweeper’s soot sack.”

This was not reassuring to the mistress of Perryfield, and she cast a fretful look toward the drawing room door, as if debating whether to drag the men off by force.

Frances had taken a seat at the pianoforte and was turning over the sheets of music. “Do you never worry, Mrs. Rowland, that Mr. Rowland will fall asleep when he is smoking and set fire to the house?”

“Pah. Rowland always wakes up when the women go. He says it’s the shrillness of female jabbering he can’t stand. He must drowse in self-defense.”

But poor Mr. Rowland’s period of alertness was cut short that evening, for Frances was only halfway through her second piece when the doors opened and the gentlemen entered. Their appearance was so sudden that Jane was caught out, alone upon a settee because Cassie had risen to inspect the baron’s bookcase. And then, before she could rise herself, Mr. Beck streaked across the room to drop down beside her.

“What a delightful air, Miss Barstow,” he called over to Frances. “Pray continue, and do not let our entrance interrupt so charming a performance.”

“Yes, yes, my dear,” the baron seconded. “It has been some months since I had the pleasure of hearing this piece.”

Without a word Frances obeyed, leaving the rest of the gentlemen to dispose themselves about the room and providing Mr. Beck with a cover for whatever he might choose to say to Jane.

He wasted no time.

Propping an immaculately tailored elbow along the back of the settee, he leaned toward her to murmur, “How abruptly you left Hardy and me, Mrs. Merritt, when we came upon you walking.”

Jane edged away on the pretense of brushing a fleck of something from her skirts. “I would not have wanted Mrs. Dere to think me in any danger,” she replied.

“Ah, but it was not you in danger.”

Refusing to understand him, Jane gave an “mm” worthy of Mrs. Dere and fixed her eyes on Frances’ back. Which did not prevent her from noticing they attracted almost equal interest as the fair piano-player. Mrs. Dere watched them surreptitiously. Miss Hynde watched them in her own attempt at stealth, but her lips pouted. Mr. Egerton watched them with not the least attempt at disguise, one brow lifted.

Familiar resentment flooded her. I am doing nothing wrong. I was sitting here first, and I did not choose this place so that he might join me. My conscience is clear.

“You will not ask me why I am in danger,” sighed Mr. Beck. “Heartless creature.”

Then Jane looked at him, temper still pulsing through her. “I do not ask you, sir, because this sort of talk is distasteful to me, and I wish you would forbear.”

A muted chuckle twisted his mouth. “You quite fooled me at first, Mrs. Merritt.” Giving an impatient click of her tongue, she turned away again, but it did not dismay him. “When I first met you—after our near accident—I told myself, ‘Alex, there is the sweetest, most innocent rose—or, at least, as innocent a rose as a widow may be. Her very guilelessness perfumes the air. Her clear and artless gaze—’”

Whipping open her fan, Jane began to wave it furiously, as if his objectionable attentions were a miasma of coal smoke requiring a hurricane to be dispelled.

“But I have since learned,” he continued, unperturbed by any atmospheric phenomena, “that your show of innocence is just that—a show. In fact, you have for some years been rusticating here to live down your notoriety, have you not?” Another mocking sigh in her ear, and Jane twitched to feel it brush her skin. “You must not think I reproach you with these things, Mrs. Merritt. Quite the contrary. I actually prefer women who know what they are about, and it took me entirely by surprise to find myself drawn by the opposite. Therefore, to discover I had come upon a paradox, two in one, embodying simultaneously innocence and experience…I declare, I am at your mercy.”

“Then go away!” she hissed, driven beyond self-control. “If you are at my mercy, go away and leave me alone.”

“That, alas, is the one thing I cannot do, even to please you.”

Frances’ second song mercifully ended here, and Jane sprang up to applaud, her fan falling to the carpet. “That was splendid. Just splendid.”

Her younger sister stared at her, mortified that now everyone must affect similar enthusiasm for the modest sonatina, the gentlemen all on their feet, clapping politely.

“It was indeed,” declared Mr. Beck. His heartiness was a balm to Frances, but he ruined it the next instant by turning to Jane and urging, “Might we prevail upon you next, Mrs. Merritt? I am at your service to turn your music or to accompany you with my voice.”

And then Jane lied, out and out.

“I couldn’t possibly,” she answered. “Our little dog Poppet—I was playing with him and got him too stirred up, and he inadvertently bit my finger.” She fluttered her gloved hand. “Therefore it has been somewhat stiff. But if you sing, sir, might one of the other ladies accompany you? I am certain I speak for all when I say it would be a treat to listen to you.”

Mrs. Dere, Mrs. Rowland, and Miss Hynde all spoke over each other to volunteer, with the result that the latter two politely yielded to their hostess. With a proud lift of her chin, Mrs. Dere strode to the instrument, leaving Mr. Beck no alternative but to bow and follow.

Jane could have laughed in triumph at his fleeting grimace, but she permitted herself only the tiniest smile as she bent to retrieve her fan.

The settee gave a bounce as a vexed Frances dropped onto it. “Whatever made you call such attention to me?” she grumbled when the music resumed.

“I’m sorry, sweeting, but I had to get away from him and his unwanted attentions.”

“Ah, that we all should suffer so! Doesn’t he have an excellent voice, though, to go with his excellent person?”

“Handsome is as handsome does,” replied Jane grimly. Even to her sister she could not repeat Mr. Beck’s odious insinuations. That he should claim to like her better, for the things which she would prefer to forget! The things which caused her such grief, then and now. And to dare to mention “women who knew what they were about,” as if Jane would take pride in being of their number!

If she disliked the man before, she detested him now, and brusqueness in her dealings with him no longer struck her as something to be avoided. Surely people without courtesy were less particular about its absence in others?

“In any event, Frances, don’t leave me alone the rest of the evening.”

“I didn’t mean to leave you alone then,” her sister replied, “only the gentlemen returned sooner than I expected. No, no. I will cling to you faithfully.”

However little pleasure his own singing brought Mr. Beck when not accompanied by the lady of his choice, his performance won general approbation. Miss Hynde, for one, listened as if it were a matter of life and death, leaning forward, eyes intent, hands clasped to her bosom. Egerton noticed, of course—he could only pray no one else did, for the girl was so artless. Though the man sang very well, any possible enjoyment Egerton might have derived was spoiled by Beck himself. What havoc the man was wreaking among Egerton’s female acquaintance!

Egerton did not fault Miss Hynde for being fascinated by Beck. Young innocent that she was, it was only too natural that she be overwhelmed in her first encounter with a handsome, dashing London rake. It would be odd if she were not.

It would only be natural as well if jealousy of Beck were to gnaw at Egerton, but he felt miraculously intact and unharmed, and he could not help but feel complacent. The man is not worthy of my jealousy. Perhaps he might feel differently if Beck showed any signs of reciprocating Miss Hynde’s foolish tendre , but he did not. Indeed, Beck hardly seemed to realize Felicity existed. If anything, his attentions were all for—had all been for—

It's disgraceful. Has he no respect for her and what she has endured?

From across the room Egerton’s gaze had returned again and again to the pair, observing with rising indignation Beck’s inexcusable leers and leans and murmurs. Mrs. Merritt’s answering coolness, however—obvious to Egerton though he could not hear a word spoken—deserved praise. She alone of the ladies present appeared untouched by the man’s charm. Most unexpected, considering her history.

Their last conversation having ended in mutual dissatisfaction, Egerton could not resist this opportunity to restore harmony, and when the tea was prepared and she rose to fetch her cup, he made haste to cross paths with her.

“Mrs. Merritt, I am sorry to hear of your injury,” he began.

“My injury?” she repeated, her brow knitting. Her fingers drifted to her forehead. “But it’s been better for quite some time now.”

“I referred to Poppet biting your finger,” he explained.

“Oh. That.” Inexplicably she went crimson. “Er—thank you. It is nothing.”

Smiling he said, “Perhaps not, but you have suffered more than your share of injuries lately, and I would have liked to hear you play.” Not that he would have delighted in watching Beck turn pages for her or sing love songs while casting flirtatious, melting looks, but this assertion was true in the main.

“Mm,” she returned vaguely. “Perhaps on another occasion.”

When she retreated a step, intending to return to her seat, Egerton heard himself blurt, “Mrs. Merritt, if you would permit me to say…I fear I displeased you earlier, when I cautioned you toward a certain person. But I see my solicitude was unwarranted.”

“As I said at the time.” She spoke in such a muted voice that he had to bend his head to hear her beneath Beck’s showy booming.

“Yes,” he agreed, “you did say there was no need to worry. And that you hoped, with increased acquaintance would come increased trust. You were very right to say so, Mrs. Merritt, for so it is. I see, from your conduct, that you are in no—further—danger. Your…suspicious attitude toward him is—is praiseworthy.”

Gladly would he have groaned and rapped his forehead with his knuckles at this awkward speech. Was it just his imagination, or was he becoming more priggish and affected by the hour? The very personification of par sonification? Why could he not simply say he had been misguided, assuming her past actions dictated her future choices? Why could he not simply say she had been right, and he had been wrong?

When she replied at last, his heart sank at the coolness of her manner.

“‘Approbation from Sir Hubert Stanley is praise indeed,’” she quoted dryly, and had any of her family overheard, they would have delighted in this flash of her former sauciness. “If you will excuse me, Mr. Egerton…”

“A moment, Mrs. Merritt.” His hand reached for her of its own accord, stopping just short of her forearm. “That—was not how I intended to sound. Officious and—presumptuous—I mean. As you observed last time, I may be your family priest in Mr. Terry’s absence, but that need not make me a—a—a—a downright ass.”

His reward for this humbling of himself was instant pardon and a smile which lit her face, warming him from tip to toe.

If this is the power of forgiveness , Egerton thought, I may have to err again.

Much later he was to wonder, if they been alone and without witnesses, what more might have been said or done?

For no more could be said or done in the moment.

Beck roared to his conclusion; Mrs. Rowland approached to refill Egerton’s cup; Miss Barstow appeared at her sister’s side and never left it again; and Egerton himself, with a stifled sigh, resumed his place beside the angelic Miss Hynde.