Page 17 of Mrs. Merritt’s Remorse (Lord Dere’s Dependents #2)

Charity and beating begins at home.

— John Fletcher, With without Money (1639)

October turned to November, and on every tongue and mind in Iffley was the Greenwood ball. Even those with no hope of an invitation expected to derive good from the occasion, especially the shopkeepers, the tailors and dressmakers, and the stables of the Tree Inn. And many who lived in Oxford during term time planned on returning to their Iffley homes in order to attend.

“You must all come to Perryfield to practice your dancing,” Mrs. Dere insisted. “I declare, it has been so long since I attended an assembly or ball that I won’t know my left foot from my right when Mr. Beck leads me to the top of the room.”

The Barstows answered the summons, of course, but it was no hardship because they too feared rustiness, and a happy Mrs. Dere made life easier than an unhappy one. A happy Mrs. Dere granted precious items like surplus ribbon, lace, and satin to trim their gowns and caps, as well as the loan of pendants, bracelets, jeweled combs, and rings. This largesse extended even to Jane, to whom she presented a lace cloak only slightly crumpled with damp (“but that will make it hang more softly”).

“Thank you, Mrs. Dere,” Jane replied, trying to hide her surprise and bracing for the sly stab of the knife which often followed.

Sure enough, it came.

“I must praise you for your conduct of late, Mrs. Merritt,” Mrs. Dere pronounced, watching magnanimously as Jane shook out the cloak and ran an appreciative finger over the double-press point lace edging. “Unlike that foolish Miss Hynde, you have not thrown yourself at the head of Mr. Beck, no matter how handsome he may be.”

“There is no danger of that, madam,” replied Jane quietly.

“ I would throw myself at his head, Mrs. Dere,” declared Frances with the boldness of a favorite, “only I suspect Mr. Beck would duck, and I should go flying clear over.”

“How you love to tease me,” returned Mrs. Dere fondly, “but if I am not mistaken, it is your sister Mrs. Merritt whom Mr. Beck has his eye upon.”

With an effort Jane managed not to wring the lace in her hands. “I don’t know about that, madam.”

“Indeed? Has he not spoken words to that effect when he whispers to you in gatherings?”

“Mrs. Dere, Jane cannot be blamed for—” began Mrs. Barstow, driven to defend her most vulnerable child from this attack, but it was Jane herself who interrupted her.

“He has,” she admitted, “but I have told him that I do not like it. I cannot help having to answer him when he addresses me, nor could I think of an excuse to refuse to dance with him at the ball, but be assured I take no pleasure in it.”

“Are you certain he does not tempt you at all, Mrs. Merritt?” probed Mrs. Dere. “Such a dashing man of the world. Was not your Mr. Roger such a specimen?”

“He was,” Jane allowed with reluctance.

“And Mr. Beck has the advantage of money.”

“Money or no, it is all equal to me,” Jane insisted. “Miss Hynde is welcome to him. Anyone is, though I too would advise Frances to look elsewhere. I have no designs on him—not now and not ever. I have learned my lesson.”

Her earnestness proved persuasive. Mrs. Dere even favored her with a nod of belated approval. “Very good, Mrs. Merritt. How does the saying go? ‘That man must daily wiser grow, whose search is bent himself to know.’”

Mrs. Dere’s maxim, however useful a reminder it might be to the general populace, was by this point second nature to Jane. Who else had more time to know herself? Who else had more cause to wish herself wiser?

And what she had learned about herself might be summarized in a short list:

Contrary to what novels taught, it was possible to be in love more than once in one’s life. Love could be doomed for myriad reasons. Resisting love was a hundred times more difficult than yielding to it, and which was ultimately more painful remained for her to discover. The good thing about having been unhappy for two years was that, when a new cause for unhappiness appeared, everyone still blamed the old cause. Which was accurate in one sense, for the new cause stemmed directly from lingering consequences of the old. And, She rather liked teaching.

This last finding provided welcome variety to her darker meditations, and to her amazement it was Harry Barbary she particularly enjoyed. For while the Cramthorpes were diligent pupils, it must also be recorded that Jimmy was rather dull and Anna rather scatter-brained. But Harry—Harry was clever. And, still better, Harry was curious.

“Miss—how do I write my name?” “How do I write your name?” “How do I write like the writing in the note?” “Why does the alphabet look different in your writing than in the hornbook?”

While Jimmy and Anna still took pains to form their letters, Jimmy with his tongue between his teeth as he wrote and Anna producing virtual hieroglyphics, Harry was soon capable of a legible—if not an elegant—running hand. Jane began to have visions of the boy becoming a useful member of the community. Why, instead of stealing from Mrs. Lamb or Mr. Linn, if they could be brought to pardon his past sins, he might become a worthy assistant to them! An errand boy who could read directions on letters or tally columns of figures.

Yes, Jane rather liked teaching.

So it was something of a shock the very morning of the Greenwood ball when Harry brought a sheet of paper to her with some of his new writing on it. He waited to produce it until Cassie had stepped out with Anna to clean her dripping nose.

“Look, miss,” Harry said.

“Oh, no, what have you got this time, Harry? Where did you find it?”

“This is mine!” he protested. “I’ve written a sentence about you, but you tell me what you think of it.”

“A sentence! Goodness. But where did you get this piece of paper, Harry?”

“I found it somewhere,” he said without a blush.

Frowning, Jane considered pursuing this further, but her eye fell upon the writing, and she at once forgot about the paper’s provenance.

“‘Mrs. Merritt,’” she read under her breath, “‘deserving of charity for her ill-advised marriage.’”

“Oh, ho!” cried Harry, bouncing on his bench with eagerness. “I worked out some of it! ‘Deserving’ because it was like ‘desert,’ like ‘our fathers did eat manna in the desert,’ but ‘charity’—I didn’t know what ‘c’ and ‘h’ are together.”

“They usually make a ‘ch’ sound,” Jane replied automatically. “As in ‘church’ or ‘change.’”

But her heart was hammering. If Harry did not even know what he wrote, he must have copied it.

“Harry—where did you see this sentence?”

For the first time, he looked wary, but he wiped his features blank and nipped the sheet from her fingers. “I can’t rightly say, miss. But I wrote it down in hopes it said something better. I hoped it said you deserved something better. Like having your hand shook or your cheek pinched.”

But Jane was adding two and two and making four.

“Harry—some time ago, you mentioned writing the alphabet in a book with a pencil.”

“Did I?” He sounded easy, but Jane noticed Jimmy Cramthorpe suddenly hunching lower at the table and feigning deep interest in his work.

“You did,” she answered. “And I thought it odd at the time but soon forgot about it. How do you happen to have a book at home, or a pencil?”

“I didn’t steal it from Mr. Linn!” he declared. “I—I found it. Them, rather.”

“Like you ‘found’ the note with the hearts and flowers the other day?” (Jimmy by this point was hunching so low Jane thought he might do better simply to crawl under the table. But there was no use interrogating the younger boy because Harry would no doubt make him pay later for any tale-telling done now.)

“…Maybe…”

“They must be returned at once,” she commanded. “I—will not ask where you found them, the book which contained this sentence and the pencil which wrote it, but you must put them back.”

“Now, miss, are you going to peach me?”

“No. I am not.” It was the entire truth. The very last thing in the whole world which Jane wanted to do was to march up to Mr. Philip Egerton, his stolen book of parish notes in hand, and inform him that Harry had shared its contents with her. And the second to the very last thing in the whole world which she wanted to do was to discuss it further with Harry Barbary.

“But this must stop. Promise me, Harry, or I will tell Miss Egerton and leave it to her what should be done.”

Considering where he had found the items and how much he liked his time at the rectory, Harry would prefer not to cross its current mistress. “I promise,” he said.

“Then we will say no more about it.”

The lesson continued; Cassie and Anna returned; the lesson ended.

“Winching has bread and butter for you in the kitchen before you go,” Cassie told them as they scraped their chairs back.

Harry threw one glance at Jane, each understanding the other, and then he dashed from the room.

Cassie seized Jane’s hands and twirled her in a circle. “There, that’s done, and now we have the ball to look forward to. I know you don’t want to dance with you-know-who, but at least you have a partner for two sets. What if nobody asks me but Philip? I will insist he stand up with me twice, then.”

“Nonsense,” said Jane, going rather red. “Mrs. Dere was counting all the gentlemen who would be present, and she thinks the numbers will be very even.”

“That’s a mercy. I believe Lord Dere sends his coach for us after they have picked you up, so Philip may freeze again in the outside seat. If the chill renders him clumsy, have no fear, Jane. Dancing with Felicity and me will limber him before we send him your way.”

But it was not Mr. Egerton’s possible clumsiness Jane feared.

It was facing him again, now that she knew how he looked upon her. Now that she understood each of their previous encounters in this new light. Not the light of courtesy or kindness or understanding. Nor the light of growing friendship.

No. A different light altogether. A crushing one.

“Deserving of charity .”

If Greenwood Hall had put its best foot foremost for the card party, for the ball it positively dazzled. In addition to candles and lanterns, swags of autumn and hothouse flowers garlanded the entry and ground-floor windows.

“My word!” breathed Miss Hynde as the Perryfield coach drew to a halt, patting the silk rosebuds in her own hair. “It quite puts one to shame.”

Somebody had to demur, but with Mr. Egerton perched with the coachmen outside it fell to a chorus of Barstow women to insist that, no, no, she looked lovely. Miss Hynde probably could have spared Jane’s approbation, but she fluttered prettily and thanked them before Harker opened the door and unfolded the steps.

Miss Hynde was not the only one looking lovely. While Jane wore no rosebuds in her hair, Frances had insisted one of Mrs. Dere’s cast-off ribbons be wound throughout, this one a rich red to complement Jane’s dark tresses. A second of these ribbons, her only other adornment, enwrapped the high waist of her muslin gown beneath Mrs. Dere’s lace cape. All the rest which pleased those who saw her—her eyes, her regular features, her pleasing person, the color which flooded her cheeks—was simply Jane herself.

“Mrs. Merritt.”

Jane had unwittingly stood where Mr. Egerton must spring down, so they could not avoid looking at each other, but she dropped her eyes nearly at once to the gravel as she made her curtsey. His gaze lingered however, taking in her tout ensemble, before Cassie and Miss Hynde took an arm on either side, that he might lead them to the entrance.

“He must have invited additional London friends,” murmured Sarah beside her, “because I doubt Iffley holds this many people.”

In spite of herself, Jane was awed. Daunted, even.

Had she truly spoken curtly to this glittering society man? What a dunce he must think her! Who was Jane Merritt but a country nobody, whose only venture into the greater world ended in disgrace. Who was she to resent his flirtations? Flirtations which certainly meant nothing to him, which cost him nothing. The very fact that Jane took umbrage at them only emphasized her na?veté. But how else could she respond? Flirting with him in turn was unthinkable.

I must keep my temper. If I neither encourage him nor amuse him by firing up, he will soon weary of the sport and turn his attentions elsewhere. This has only gone on so long because I foolishly played into his hands.

Along with pretending Mr. Egerton did not exist, this would make her second unbreakable resolution, and Jane hoped fervently she would have more success with this one. Greeting the hosts was the first hurdle, as Mr. Beck stood beside the Rowlands and the inevitable Mr. Hardy to receive his guests. With a peep at her mother and Sarah, Jane pasted what she prayed was a copy of their unsmiling-but-serene expression across her own features. She made her curtsey. Her gaze skimmed across the London party without a hitch, and then she was free to follow her family up the stairs.

On the first floor, lines of smoke-darkened portraits stared at the transformation of their long gallery into a ballroom, with musicians tuning their instruments on a raised platform at the near end and tables holding light refreshments at the other, doors along the length opening onto a passage lined with rooms for cards and the supper.

The gathering throng buzzed with anticipation, and acquaintances were pounced upon as if after a long absence, though most of the conversation consisted of praise of their surroundings. Kind Lord Dere asked each of the Barstow ladies and Jane for a dance, saying, “At your convenience, my dears. I will always be found here, so if you ever find yourself without a partner and would like to dance, you need only come and tell me.”

“May I have you for the first, then?” asked Frances at once. “Unless, Mama, you would like to be first.”

“Goodness, no, child,” Mrs. Barstow laughed. “I know you are dying to dance, so how could I be happy if you had no partner? But when you have done your duty by us, dear baron, you must promise me you will then do whatever you like.”

He bowed in acquiescence, but his smile was so tranquil that Jane knew he thought his duty no burden. It was this sweetness of his that emboldened her to say, “Lord Dere—would you mind dreadfully if I asked you to ask Miss Egerton as well? Cassie feared only her brother would, and you will find her a charming partner.”

“It would be an honor. Only bring her to stand by you, and if I look in danger of going unclaimed by one of you, I will ask her at once.”

It was a comfort for Jane to know she would have at least one respectable partner with whom she need not tread upon eggs. And indeed, she should also consider herself lucky that, if she had to dance twice with Mr. Beck, at least she would have done with it early.

Would Mr. Egerton consider asking her to dance an act of charity? Jane did not know, and she was afraid that wishing he would hardly accorded with her resolve to forget him.

“Mrs. Merritt, if you are at liberty to open the ball with me, I would be glad of it.”

She turned to find Mr. Hardy at her elbow, though why he should be there was a puzzle. As if he guessed her bemusement, he said, “Beck told me to keep an eye on you and make sure you had a partner.”

Biting the inside of her cheek, Jane managed to swallow her indignation, though inwardly she fumed. Keep an eye on her, indeed! What business of it was his if she had no partner? The impudence of the man! As if being singled out for Mr. Egerton’s pity were not bad enough—now Mr. Beck must hover over her in possessive care?

Fortunately nobody noticed her vexation, moving as they all were to find their partners. Jane placed her hand upon Hardy’s arm (perhaps a trifle more firmly than the occasion called for) and allowed him to lead her out. But when he headed for the top of the room where Mr. Beck and Mrs. Dere stood, her pressure grew heavier, dragging on him.

“Come, come. Don’t be shy,” said Hardy.

“I’d prefer to be further down,” Jane insisted. “It is easier to keep the figures in mind with a few repetitions before we have to change from first to second couple, or vice versa.”

“Good point. Very well. Here?”

“Here” had its own drawbacks, being but three couples below Mr. Egerton and Miss Hynde. But at least the latter were also beginning the dance as a second couple, so that with any luck Jane and Mr. Hardy might never be in the same foursome with them. It did mean, however, that Jane would have to make a greater effort not to look in their direction, since the figures would require her and Mr. Hardy always to face toward them as they traveled up the room.

Mr. Hardy, being free of similar conditions, was already twisting to peer up his side of the set, no doubt to catch Mr. Beck’s eye and indicate all was arranged to a wish.

So be it , Jane thought. With the number of couples standing up it would be, at most, twenty minutes of her life.

The music began, and she stepped forward to clasp Mr. Hardy’s hand.