Page 19 of Mrs. Merritt’s Remorse (Lord Dere’s Dependents #2)

You counsel right, my friend.

— Oliver Goldsmith, An history of England: in a series of letters from a nobleman to his son (1764)

Such had been the drama of the scene in the library that, when Miss Hynde burst out crying, no one had attention to spare the overwrought girl, and she had soon choked and sniffled herself into silence.

Egerton, certainly, had no thought for Felicity’s distress, being too occupied with his own.

If distress was the word for it.

Did distress involve internal roiling and boiling, like lava forcing its way to a volcano’s mouth? Did it encompass wanting to seize Beck by his neckcloth, to hurl him bodily from the window? If it did, then Philip Egerton was distressed.

What could Mrs. Merritt be thinking, going aside with the likes of Beck? What did she suppose would happen? Could she have sought it? Welcomed it? And to think she had told him, Egerton, so recently that Beck was nothing to her!

And he might not have known any of what passed, had Cassie not seen Felicity slip from the ballroom. “Better see what she is up to, Philip,” she hissed, “because I did not like the look of it.”

He wished he had not followed Felicity. Then he would not have witnessed what he witnessed. Any of it.

Nor could he believe Lord Dere was going to let Beck go unpunished! Had Egerton been Mrs. Merritt’s protector, he would not have stirred a step before he flung Beck’s roguery in his face, let the consequences be what they may.

But he was not Mrs. Merritt’s protector.

Nor her brother, nor her husband.

There was nothing to be done therefore but to swallow his wrath as best he might.

Mrs. Rowland, giving Beck a nudge with her elbow, whispered something to him, to which he shrugged and strode away without a second glance. The woman gave an exasperated sigh, throwing Egerton a deprecating glance, as if to say, Rascals will be rascals! before following their host.

He was left alone.

Alone, with nothing to do but to school his features into politeness again, that he might return to the ballroom.

Only then did Egerton hear a sniff.

With a start, he wheeled to discover its source, having just enough presence of mind not to exclaim, “Felicity!” as if he had forgotten her very existence, which, in fact, he had.

The girl sat nearly swallowed up in a plush armchair, staring gloomily on vacancy, the tracks of dried tears lining her cheeks. The firelight caused her golden hair to glow like a nimbus, and Egerton thought she looked like a broken-hearted angel.

“Felicity?” he said gently.

She raised blank blue eyes to his. “What.”

“Are you all right?”

No answer, but he saw the smooth column of her throat work.

“Can I fetch you something? Or can Cassie?”

“Philip—” Her head jerked up suddenly. “—You saw what I saw.”

A tongue of wrath flared up again at this reminder, and he hesitated before replying. “I did.”

“I suppose she is very beautiful.”

“What do you mean?”

“That Mr. Beck should kiss her,” she said dully. “And so ardently.”

Egerton was silent.

“Some men prefer dark hair to light, you know,” she continued, plucking at her skirts to make them drape more smoothly. “And I suppose some men prefer hazel eyes to blue, though I had always heard blue the more praised.”

“Felicity—”

“Or it could be that she…lured him here and proved too tempting to resist.” She heaved her own sigh. “A person with experience such as Mrs. Merritt has—she knows how best to manage such things. And I suppose she wants another husband, but it can’t be easy to find one who will overlook her…what she has done.”

To hear his own fears and musings spoken aloud did not improve his mood.

“Felicity, you had better forget what you saw here just now,” he answered in a tight voice. “My uncle would not thank me to know you had been exposed to—such things—while under my care.”

“But how can I forget?” she almost wailed. “I will never forget! Not that you would understand—you being the way you are.”

For the second time he asked her, “What do you mean by that?”

She sniffed, producing a handkerchief and blowing her nose without any attempt to be dainty. “Oh, I daresay you understand me, Mr. Egerton. You might even take it as a compliment.”

“Take what as a compliment?”

She stared at him, and for the first time her wide blue eyes struck him as brisk, rather than sweetly candid.

“Oh, you know,” she rejoined, a touch impatient to make irrelevant explanations when her world was crumbling. “I mean that you’re—sensible. Wise. Upright.” She tossed the adjectives at him like coins to a beggar who had drawn too near. “Reserved. Parsonic. Not a bit like—him—Mr. B—” More tears welled, and she blew her nose again.

Egerton found himself sitting across from her, though he did not remember moving. “This…is what you think of me, Miss Hynde?” If it was—and it was obvious she did not mean her words as compliments—how could he possibly win her?

Moreover, was this—equally dismaying—the general opinion of him?

But here she lost patience. She was only eighteen, after all. “Why would I have said it was what I thought of you, if it was not what I thought of you?” she demanded, waving the hand which clutched her now-sodden handkerchief. “And I will add that, if you hope to be a really effective parson, you might try not to talk about yourself when presented with someone in despair !”

Reddening with consciousness, he straightened. But he grasped at the tail of her speech for rescue. “Really, Felicity—despair? You didn’t know the man existed a fortnight ago!”

“That is precisely what a—a person like you would say,” she retorted, now hammering the arm of her chair with her little fist. “You don’t believe in love at first sight because you’ve never experienced it—never felt it! Why, I doubt you’ve ever felt love at second sight, either. Or third sight. Or hundredth!”

“That is neither here nor there!” he answered, his own voice rising with his temper. “Felicity, Cassie and I have a duty toward you, which was why I warned you against Beck. And now, having observed what took place in this room a few minutes ago, you see the validity of our concerns—”

“I see he is a passionate, ardent man,” she cried, now crossing her hands over her breast and shutting her eyes, “and I see also that everything I have been told is wrong and the novels are right. To win a passionate, ardent man, one has to be passionate and ardent oneself.” Opening her eyes again, she shook her head. “I looked at Mrs. Merritt. She was embarrassed to be discovered in flagrante , yes, but she had gone with him willingly—I saw her do it because I saw them go.” Another heavy sigh. “Mr. Beck has never once thought of me or looked at me, with her around. Being birds of a feather, they flocked together, while I—I did not exist.”

Miss Hynde was not the only one on whom enlightenment was dawning. Egerton felt as if his beloved were metamorphosing before his eyes—and indeed she was, in a sense. She had been an innocent schoolgirl before coming to Iffley, and though she had not done anything so dramatic as to fall from grace, certainly her eyes had been opened. And who could Egerton blame for this predicament but himself? But how could he have guessed that she would fall in love so quickly with a man like Alexander Beck, or that she would think Mrs. Merritt’s conduct something to be taken as a pattern?

The damage must be mitigated .

It had been a bad idea to let Felicity come to them. It had been unplanned and thus unprepared for.

She must return to my uncle and to Martha’s supervision .

“Felicity,” he said. “Let us go back to the ballroom now, or we will be missed. Cassie will be concerned.”

But in answer, her head whipped around, favoring him with a decidedly un-angelic scowl, her reply emerging in—well—it could only really be called a snarl: “Oh, go away, Philip. Do!”

He had not been wrong about Cassie growing concerned, for when he emerged from the library into the passage, he almost collided with her.

“Brother—what has happened? Where is Felicity?”

Placing a finger to his lips, he drew her away, crossing the passage again to enter the card room. There, after a glance to assure himself none of the old men playing at whist would overhear them, he told her briefly what had passed between Beck and Mrs. Merritt and the aftermath.

By the conclusion, Cassie had both hands pressed to her lips, her eyes round.

“So would you agree with me?” he pressed. “Given how dangerous it would be to her heart and well-being if she remained, wouldn’t the proper course be to send Felicity home again to my uncle?”

“Oh, Philip.”

“Or am I being too sensible, wise, upright, reserved, and parsonic?” he added ironically.

Her hands dropped. “What? Whatever are you talking about?”

“ She called me such, in comparison to Beck.” He gestured with his head back toward the library. “Compared to his ‘passion’ and ‘ardor,’ in particular.”

His sister made a pained face, reaching for his arm to comfort him. “How could she? How could she be so…blind? I am sorry for it, Philip. I know how you care for her.”

Cassie spoke nothing but the truth, as he could always expect from her. But as the realization sunk in—that Miss Hynde not only did not care for him, but she preferred this…blackguard!—he was nevertheless aware that the blow had not felled him.

He was still standing.

His brow darkened, however, for what would this mean for his plans? Was it the positive end of them, or only a delay? Would Miss Hynde come to her senses? And if she did, was she not now something of a tarnished idol?

“Parsonic,” murmured Cassie. “Is that even a word?”

“If it is, it is not meant to be flattering. But that was probably the worst of the lot she threw at me.”

“Oh, Philip,” said his sister again.

Laying his hand over hers, he pressed it before pulling free. “Now, now, Cass. No more pitying me, or you will make me cry,” he teased. “I will do my own pitying, thank you. But no more beating about the bush. Only tell me, is it right to send her home?”

“Yes. Yes, I suppose we had better. And if that makes me parsonic too, then so be it. But Philip—I must say a word on Mrs. Merritt’s behalf. Because Felicity is surely mistaken to say Mrs. Merritt invited that man’s attentions!”

For whatever reason, Egerton did find balm in Cassie’s earnestness, and the darkness of his brow lifted a touch. “That may be, but if Felicity insists on assuming and admiring the—what shall I say—the worst interpretation of Mrs. Merritt’s conduct, it is another reason to remove her from the latter’s influence.”

“Mm-hm.” Cassie studied her brother thoughtfully. For he did not sound like a man whose heart lay in pieces. Rather, he sounded much as he had when Mrs. Barbary told him her husband had returned just long enough to steal her money and spend it on gin. That is, he sounded like a parish priest with a burden to carry.

Parsonic indeed.

“I will find the right time to impart the news,” he continued. “Tomorrow, I suppose.”

“No, no. You had better let me do it. And the sooner the better. If she is as wild as you say, she might try to make a scene with him tonight.”

“Heaven forbid! We must keep her away.”

His sister grinned. “I will tell her all her weeping has made her look like she has a bad cold. She should avoid him then. In fact, if I begin with telling her she is going back to Cousin Martha, it will likely bring on even more tears.”

“It won’t be a pleasant task. And I still feel I ought to do it.”

She blushed. “But you can’t, Philip! At least, not if you wish to marry her. She will be angry and—suppose she should…guess your intentions? She might then…question your motives or—or—accuse you of being jealous.”

Instead of blushing as hotly as she, he almost chuckled. “Look at us, trying to protect each other. Well, perhaps you have a point.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Fine. The shortest cut falls to you. And I will take another task upon myself.”

“What task is that? Surely you don’t mean to speak to Mr. Beck!”

She shrunk from the sudden glitter in his eyes (then he was jealous, after all!), but he only said through tightened lips, “No, I don’t mean to. It’s Mrs. Merritt I will speak to.”

“But—why? What will you say to her? I told you she could not have invited his attentions.”

“Never you mind, but I do have a pastoral duty toward her.”

And with a muttered thanks, he left her.

Despite the numbers of dancers swirling through their final figure, Egerton had no trouble picking out Mrs. Merritt and Lord Dere, and he was glad to see Beck at the far end of the gallery in conversation with other guests.

Intercepting them as Lord Dere led her toward Mrs. Barstow, he executed a hasty bow. “Mrs. Merritt, might I have the honor of the next dance?”

He could see the swelling of her bruised lips had begun to subside, but that hardly made her more intelligible when she accepted in such low tones. The baron, however, beamed upon him, clearly crediting the parish curate with a good deed in partnering his forlorn dependent.

“Very good, Mr. Egerton. Jane, I happily bestow you upon your next partner, who will have the added good fortune of taking you to supper afterward.”

Supper! Egerton’s mouth popped open before he could prevent it, and his astonishment did not escape Mrs. Merritt. She took care to make herself understandable this time: “You need not escort me to supper, Mr. Egerton. I will sit with my mother.”

Courtesy dictated he make heartfelt protests to her suggestion, and Egerton did, but judging by her color and lowered gaze, Mrs. Merritt was not persuaded of his sincerity.

Such a beginning did not augur well for what he had to say to her, and they passed the first few minutes of the dance in silence, apart from Egerton having to apologize to the woman on his diagonal when he forgot to cross with her until she was almost upon him. Pay attention, man! And was he trembling, or was it Mrs. Merritt? For when the figures required him to take her hand, he had the memory of a butterfly landing on him as a boy, and how he had tried so hard to stay motionless that he ended in quivering head to toe.

It was plain that he must say what he had to say to her before he could be at ease in her company. And plain as well that she must be expecting unpleasantness, or why should she avoid his gaze and say nothing? Well—she might be embarrassed, he supposed. Hardly inconceivable, considering how he had last seen her, wrapped in Beck’s arms as the rogue nigh devoured her face. Egerton’s own gaze dropped to her tender lips, and he swallowed.

“Mr. Egerton, please!” frowned Mrs. Diagonal again when he failed to move. He leaped out of her way, begging her pardon—no— babbling her pardon, and something miraculous happened.

Mrs. Merritt giggled.

It was not in the least a mean-spirited giggle, but rather a spontaneous sound he had never heard from her and suddenly wished he might hear again.

And feeling his embarrassment evaporate, Egerton responded with a grin of his own. “Perhaps a little more practice would not have been amiss. Cassie did advise it.”

As quickly as it had come, Jane’s smile faded. “Yes. Mrs. Dere invited us to Perryfield to practice, or else I certainly would have been rusty. It has been so long since I danced.”

He bent to catch her eye again. “And see how effective your practice was—you have not missed a single step, while I have missed several. But was the good lady so harsh a task-mistress?”

Jane shook her head. “No, of course not. Only—” she broke off as the figures separated them briefly, but when they came back together she did not complete her thought.

“Only what?” he prompted.

“I do not want to sound ungrateful, when she has been so good to my family. The very ribbons I wear are her lendings!”

He nixed the first response which came to mind: “And very nice ribbons they are, too.” She would receive this as flattery, which he suspected she would dislike. Instead, thinking to surprise another smile from her, he said, “But let me guess: the ribbons came with an equally generous measure of condescension?”

It worked. Mrs. Merritt’s dimples came and went. “I did not say that.”

“You did not have to. I am getting to know my parishioners, you see. And understanding people’s foibles is part and parcel of the job.”

“Ah, but talking of one person’s ‘foibles’ to another person surely isn’t,” she observed with a twitch of her lips.

His hand flew to his throat in mock dismay. “You have me there, Mrs. Merritt. You have ‘broken my teeth with gravel stones’ and ‘covered me with ashes.’”

Another giggle met this, and Egerton began to swell with complacency at his success.

But then a shadow chased the sunshine from her features. “It seems you understand. She has our interests at heart, Mr. Egerton, but—that is not always a comfortable situation. Not when—not when one has…acted against those same interests. I needn’t explain to you—”

Egerton could picture exactly the form Mrs. Dere’s “condescension” had taken; no doubt she had encouraged Mrs. Merritt to be on her best behavior at all times, and no doubt Mrs. Merritt had bristled up just as she had when he encouraged her to do the same, inwardly, if not openly.

And now they were within a heartbeat of him repeating the offense! Because he must, for Mrs. Merritt’s own sake and for Miss Hynde’s.

He put it off some minutes, telling himself that, if he were to annoy his partner now, there would be no escaping from each other. Whereas, if he annoyed her at the end of the dance, she might insist again that he return her to Mrs. Barstow, and he might yield, to their mutual satisfaction.

But at last, as the figures took them to the top of the room, nearer and nearer where Beck still stood surrounded by a little court of admirers, and as Mrs. Merritt grew visibly stiffer, looking anywhere but Beckward, Egerton could postpone it no longer.

“Mrs. Merritt,” he blurted, “at the risk of giving you pain, there is one thing I must say.”

“Then—must you say it?” she asked, tugging at the tops of her long gloves in agitation.

“Yes. I am sorry. I—do not blame you for what I—what we all—witnessed a half hour ago, but I feel it my duty to say you should avoid going with certain people to…isolated places. Not only for your own safety and reputation’s sake, but also for the—example it sets to others.”

“Others?” She hung, mid-figure, before stumbling into motion again.

“Yes. Others who are perhaps more…innocent and thus vulnerable. Er—that is—Miss Hynde. I refer to Miss Hynde. The example it sets to her.” Which was a stupid thing to add because who else could he mean but Felicity? Certainly none of the other witnesses—the baron, Mrs. Dere, the younger Mrs. Barstow, or Mrs. Rowland—not a one of them was in danger of being seduced by Beck.

But when, for better or worse, he had bumbled through his speech, Mrs. Merritt met it with a look every bit as wild as Felicity’s had been, and Egerton steeled himself for reprisals. Good heavens, what an evening. Would she too hurl adjectives like missiles at him? Batter him with qualities she despised? Pulverize him with “parsonic”?

But Jane Merritt was no eighteen-year-old miss.

She said nothing. Thought much, but said nothing.

Her cheeks flaming with color, he could almost see her pulse beating in her throat, and she ripped her gaze from him, training it on the floor (where Egerton was amazed it did not blister a channel through the wood). When the steps of the dance obligated him to take her hand, she did not even bend her fingers to his but woodenly let him carry hers as if it were a relic upon a pillow.

And at last, after the suddenly endless dance wound to a close and she rose from her curtsey, features blank, she said only in an equally blank voice, “Thank you. Now will you please take me to my mother?”