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

The fruit of our own ill doing is remorse.

—Richard Hooker, Of the lawes of ecclesiasticall politie (1597)

Mrs. Gerard Weatherill, née Adela Barstow, vaulted—there could be no other word for it—over the low stone wall surrounding Iffley Cottage and dashed across the yard to the door.

“Why, Della!” cried her mother, when her oldest nearly collided with her. “What on earth are you doing here? We did not expect you, but do come in.”

“I haven’t time, Mama,” she panted, holding on to her bonnet strings to prevent Mrs. Barstow untying them. “I only came to say that—that Mrs. Markham Dere told Gerard that, if he enrolls Archie Wilson at Keele’s school, she will withdraw Peter!”

“Withdraw her son?” echoed Mrs. Barstow, having to raise her voice because all at once every other resident of Iffley Cottage, from her daughter-in-law Sarah Barstow, to her second-oldest daughter Mrs. Merritt, to seventeen-year-old Frances, to eleven-year-old Maria, to nine-year-old Gordon, to two-year-old Bash, to the servants Reed and Irving, crowded into the passage, most of them speaking at once.

“What’s wrong with Archie Wilson?” asked Maria, plucking at Adela’s sleeve.

“She can’t take Peter from Keele’s!” protested Gordon. “He and I do everything together, including ride back and forth to Oxford in Lord Dere’s coach. Peter would never stand for it! He didn’t say he would let her, did he?”

“Where would Peter go, if not to Keele’s?” was Frances’ question. “Would she hire another tutor?”

“Mr. Terry cannot do it,” Sarah pointed out, “not if he and Mrs. Terry leave for the Continent soon. In fact, I thought he was going to send his own two pupils to Keele’s as well.”

Adela addressed herself to Sarah first because, after two years of assisting her husband and his mentor with the running of Keele’s school, she tried not to reward blurting and shouting children. “That’s my other piece of news: Mr. Terry sent a note to Gerard saying the Tommies would not be matriculating after all because Mr. Terry’s new curate offers to teach them himself.”

“My dear girl,” breathed Mrs. Barstow, “if Mr. Terry’s new curate keeps the Tommies, and Mrs. Dere removes Peter, can the school survive the loss of fees?”

Her oldest daughter met her worried gaze, but it was Frances who spoke first: “I daresay the baron would make up the difference, Della, if you apply to him.”

This drew sighs from the older women. Apply to Mrs. Barstow’s cousin Lord Dere, when he had already done so, so much for them? It was Lord Dere who provided Iffley Cottage when they had nowhere to go after the death of Mr. Barstow. It was Lord Dere who had allowed Gordon to share a tutor with his own heir and great-nephew Peter, and who now paid Gordon’s school fees. It was Lord Dere who came to the family’s rescue when Jane Merritt’s husband ruined himself. It was Lord Dere who had recognized that Adela and the tutor had fallen in love and who then arranged for them to marry. And in between these monumental things, it was the baron who smoothed over the countless little difficulties between them and his niece by marriage Mrs. Markham Dere, despite being generally under the woman’s thumb.

“It will only be a few more pounds and shillings for him,” Frances tried to buoy them. “A mere drop in the bucket of the amount we already owe.”

Unsurprisingly, they took no comfort from this, and young Maria, peering into her elders’ faces, soon burst out again with, “But why should Mrs. Dere be so troublesome?”

“Now, now, Maria,” chided her mother, “I suppose Mrs. Dere only wants the best for Peter.”

“But what is wrong with this Archie Wilson anyway?” Maria persisted.

“He is—there is—” Adela fumbled. “Well, sweeting, he is someone’s natural child.”

“Natural child?” Maria repeated, perplexed.

“I will explain to you later, Maria,” said her sister. “Or Mama will. But I must return to Oxford now, or Gerard will wonder what became of me. I only meant to go for a long, long walk to clear my head and try to think what must be done—but then I realized you all would be seeing the Deres at Perryfield tomorrow when you meet the new curate, and I thought—oh, I hardly know! That you might be able to sound Mrs. Dere and discover how in earnest she is and what may be done.”

“Of course we will,” Mrs. Barstow assured her. “And I will write to you directly if we learn anything, or even if we don’t.”

“Della—” It was the first word Jane Merritt had spoken since her sister’s appearance. “Della, wait. I feel this is my fault. Mrs. Dere’s objections to the boy, I mean. She would not be so touchy about it, if she did not feel she has already…tolerated enough irregularities.”

Even in her hurry, Adela Weatherill stopped at this to grip her sister by the shoulders and look directly in her eyes. “No, Jane. This is not your fault. Archie Wilson has nothing to do with you, and I’ll warrant Mrs. Dere was touchy before she ever heard the name of Barstow.”

“But should I stay home from the dinner?” Jane insisted. “Will my presence vex her further?”

“Go, Jane. Go, and never mind her. Never mind all of this. It will sort itself out.”

Then, with kisses for each of them, Adela scampered away as quickly as she had come.

A little silence fell in the passage which had been so noisy, and the servants, finding no excuse to linger, reluctantly withdrew.

“If I am not needed,” said Jane after a pause, “I think I will lie down for a little while.”

Iffley Cottage was small for the seven family members and two servants it held, but during the day privacy could be found in one of the three modest bedrooms, and it was to the one Jane Merritt shared with her sister-in-law Sarah that she now retreated.

“So much for time curing all,” said Frances when they heard the door shut upstairs. Throwing herself upon the sofa beside the cat, she rubbed the favorite spot below its ears. “Now she will mope, and it will be a fortnight before we can persuade her to show her face in the village again.”

“We cannot let her continue to hide, Mrs. Barstow,” Sarah sighed. “I know the baron arranged tomorrow’s dinner especially, so she might—we all might—meet the new curate and his sister before any of the tittle-tattle about us reaches them. So they might get their information ‘from the source,’ as it were.”

“I know it,” said her mother-in-law. “But what can we do, except add our encouragement to Adela’s and try to persuade her if she resists going?”

“I wish she had never married Roger Merritt,” Maria said stoutly, but this was so self-evident a sentiment that it drew no response. “Did you know I once asked her if she wanted to marry the next time in a church, instead of eloping, and she told me she would never marry again.”

Mrs. Barstow drooped. “Yes. She has said that to me too.”

“For now, never mind her marrying again,” Frances said, throwing up her hands. “Let us begin with getting her to the Perryfield dinner.”

“I do believe I have caught a little chill and had better stay home today,” Jane announced at breakfast the following morning, not looking up as she diligently spread jam on Bash’s toast.

Across the table, her family exchanged glances which said, You see? It is as we feared.

“Might I go in her place, then, Mama?” Maria asked artlessly. “I’m eleven now, and I don’t see why I should stay home with Gordy and Bash as if I were a baby.”

“You weren’t invited,” Frances said shortly, before turning on Jane. “You’re perfectly well, and you know it, Jane,” she accused. “You just don’t want to see Mrs. Markham Dere because of the Archie Wilson business.”

“No,” returned Jane. “I have thought about Archie Wilson and see that Della is probably right. Mrs. Dere would have objected to him in any case.”

“Then this is about meeting the new curate and his sister,” Frances pursued. When Jane made no reply, Frances leaned forward and rapped on the table in her insistence. “But don’t you see? If this Mr. Egerton is to take Mr. Terry’s church for several months, you will see him and Miss Egerton every week, Jane, if not oftener, so it would be better to meet them now and have done with it.”

Biting her lip, Jane gave the toast to Bash, who promptly smashed it against his face, smearing jam over his round cheeks.

The fact was, Jane considered herself the black sheep of the family. Nay—if there existed a deeper dye than black, she was that. For she, the daughter of a respectable Berkshire clergyman, had loved and eloped with a man of whom her father disapproved, only to learn too late the wisdom of the late Gordon Barstow’s opinion. And though, with his good looks and dash and high spirits, Roger Merritt had been all that her twenty-one-year-old self thought desirable, their brief union led only to misery. After his aunt cut off his allowance in response to his imprudent match, Jane’s husband soon regretted marrying her. Not that he ever said so, but his bitterness had been plain enough. And if she could not now recall his descent into drink and ruin without cringing in shame, much less could she bear to think of his ultimate confinement in the Fleet Prison for debt—!

Two slow years had passed since Roger’s death brought that wretched chapter of her life to a close, two years in which her family never once reproached her for the jeopardy in which her misadventures placed them—but they had no need to. Jane was fully capable of administering her own punishment.

With the assistance of Lord Dere and of the man who was now Adela’s husband, she had returned to the bosom of her family, taking shelter there from the storm and rarely venturing out. For the first three months she had not even gone to church, and for the next three she had gone only there, if she emerged from the cottage at all. And over time the practice which began in shame for her failures grew into habit. This, despite the fact that even the most horrifying affairs will lose their power to horrify through sheer familiarity. After two years, the repetition of her scandalous story grew so commonplace in Iffley that it ceased to scandalize. Contrarily, it was curiosity which grew, in direct parallel with her reclusiveness. Had Jane been a dowd, or closer in age to forty than twenty, she doubtless would have been forgotten by this point, but because she was still young and pretty, her reticence drew interest. Evoked sympathy, even.

Frances made an impatient movement, guessing what passed through her sister’s mind. “The point is,” she said again, “the new curate is coming, whether we like it or not, and Mr. Terry is going away, whether we like it or not. You know how Mrs. Terry worries over her husband’s cough, and now that peace has come they may escape someplace warm. I envy them! Imagine Italy and the South of France!”

Sarah, who had lost her husband Sebastian in a naval action against the French, gave a shiver, but she reached around her son to pat Jane’s shoulder. “Even without the children, there will be four of us to be introduced tonight at Perryfield,” she observed. “And with Lord Dere, Mrs. Markham Dere, and the Terrys, we will be such a comfortable crowd! It is the Egertons who will be the strangers. Think, Jane. Suppose you did not meet them tonight—you would then have to be introduced on a later occasion, likely in the churchyard this Sunday, and when that happened you would be conspicuous as the only new acquaintance.”

Jane straightened, her hazel eyes widening. “Oh! How true, Sarah. I did not—did not think of that.” Picking up her teacup, she brought it near her lips, only to set it down again. Then she snatched up the toast on her plate and began to pull it apart. But seeing everyone at the table watching her, she made another effort and folded her hands in her lap.

“Yes,” Jane said quietly. “I had better accompany you all, then. I should like to see what Mrs. Dere says of Archie Wilson, at any rate. And, as Sarah says, there will be safety in numbers.”

While it would be an exaggeration to call Mrs. Markham Dere the Barstows’ nemesis, she certainly was mistrustful of Lord Dere’s constant kindnesses toward them, and who could blame her, when the oldest Barstow daughter had nearly carried the baron off as a matrimonial prize? For Mrs. Markham Dere, to come so near being supplanted, to have her son Peter’s position as Heir threatened—these things had left their mark.

The Dere coach which fetched the Barstows that afternoon was just one example of the baron’s thoughtfulness, but as the women climbed in, settling upon the Morocco leather cushions and feeling their slippers sink into the Wilton carpets, Jane could spare a thought for neither the vehicle’s elegance nor the owner’s care. She was too occupied with what lay ahead. I will know everyone there but the Egertons , she reminded herself, and they might be more apprehensive than I, for they know no one. Yes. The Egertons would be the strangers in that gathering, not she. And truly, how frightening could one inexperienced curate and his younger sister be?

Curates were harmless, after all. Often colorless and uninteresting. Pitiable in their poverty. Take, as a specimen, her late father’s curate Mr. Liddell, the one they once thought would marry Adela. Why, Mr. Liddell had been so ordinary in appearance and personality that recalling him was no easy task. He had been a curate’s curate, as it were. Mouse-brown hair and eyes set close together. That was all she could remember. Oh, yes, and a tendency to clear his throat before every speech. If it had been Mr. Liddell she were being introduced to on this occasion, he would have said only, “Oh—hem! Mrs. Merritt? Ahem.” And Jane would have known straight off whether he had been told her history by whether he blushed or not. He certainly would not have had the courage to refer to it, much less to disdain her for it. Please heaven, may Mr. Egerton prove just another Mr. Liddell!

Too soon the coach passed the long stone wall which enclosed the great house. Too soon they reached the windowless arch with leaded traceries which peeped into the grounds. Too soon the coach drew up before the symmetrical, three-storey, ivy-bearded stone house with its neat rows of mullioned windows.

And far too soon the footman Wood threw open the drawing room doors to announce, “Mrs. Gordon Barstow, Mrs. Sebastian Barstow, Mrs. Roger Merritt, and Miss Barstow.”

Not raising her eyes above the semicircle of shoes and skirts confronting her, Jane allowed that Sarah had been right. With so many gathered, the Egertons might not even have caught her name.

Straightening from his bow, the slim and silver-haired Lord Dere raised an arm and opened his mouth to greet them, but his niece anticipated him.

“Ah, Barstows,” Mrs. Markham Dere said coolly, striding forward. “You must allow me to present Mr. Terry’s new curate, Mr. Philip Egerton, and his sister Miss Egerton. Mr. and Miss Egerton, may I present his lordship’s cousin Mrs. Barstow? She and her family tenant Iffley Cottage in the village. I have already mentioned Mrs. Weatherill, who lives in Oxford and who is Mrs. Barstow’s eldest daughter…”

Mrs. Dere had more to say—much more—but Jane scarcely remarked it over the rush of her pulse. For—oh, my!—Mr. Egerton was not a thing like innocuous Mr. Liddell. In fact, he was not a thing like any curate she had known or imagined.

It was not his good looks which made him stand out. Indeed, Jane hardly remarked his looks at all, other than to see he had light brown hair streaked with gold, eyes which were a paler, greener shade of hazel than her own, and a long nose with the slightest bump halfway down, which gave him the air of, if not a Roman, at least something near to one . No, it was not his looks which struck her first. It was…something else. Though she struggled to put her finger on it, it might be best described as the energy contained in him. A vigor carried in his person, though his build was neither particularly tall nor large. Some mysterious force, expressed without his needing to move or shout or otherwise draw attention. Was it confidence? Resoluteness?

Whatever one might call it, it was accentuated by a clear, clear gaze, beaming forth from eyes which had nothing to hide. And because Mr. Philip Egerton had nothing to hide, when he looked at one in turn, one felt seen — and seen through —for better or worse.

And in Jane’s case, it was definitely for worse.

Because did his sharp gaze not sharpen still further when presented with her, picking her out among the other Barstow women? Mrs. Dere has told him about me. Or Mrs. Terry has. It could not have been Mrs. Lamb, though she is such a gossip, for how could he even yet know the postmistress, to speak with her?

“Mrs. Merritt.” He had murmured each name in turn, and the sound of her own made color bloom on Jane’s face, making her feel gauche as a schoolgirl.

Thankfully no more was expected of her, and she retreated to the lee of Sarah’s shoulder and then to take a seat between Sarah and Frances on the sofa.

“…Fortunate that Mr. Egerton is willing to take on the tutelage of Wardour and Ellis,” the rector Mr. Terry was saying to the company. “The Tommies, you know. Less disruptive for them, as well as for Keele’s.”

“Disruptive for Keele’s!” sniffed Mrs. Markham Dere. “After all the baron has done for the Weatherills, they would have shifted to take on your two pupils whether it was convenient or not.”

Indeed, the building in Oxford where Jane’s sister and brother-in-law both lived and ran a school had been leased to them by Lord Dere, and the Barstows all knew the Weatherills would have done whatever was asked of them, if it were the baron doing the asking. To have Mrs. Dere doubt their gratitude gave general offense.

“I don’t doubt it, Mrs. Dere,” the rector’s wife intervened. “But for that very reason we did not want to force the Tommies upon them. Moreover, Mrs. Weatherill told me that they had just enrolled two new boys, and she hoped they would get along with the others.”

“Perhaps they will begin to think of expanding Keele’s—” began the baron, before his niece cut him off.

“Two new pupils! To whom do you refer, Mrs. Terry?”

“The first is from Oxford proper,” she answered, “a boy close in age to Gordy and Peter. Mrs. Weatherill says he will do very well—he is content to be led by the others, without being odd or so small or weak that they are tempted to pick at him. The second, I believe, is younger, and I hope he will fit as well. Poor little thing—apparently neither Nixon’s nor Magdalen School would take him.”

“I knew it!” cried Mrs. Dere, drawing herself up. “It’s that Archie Wilson child, is it not?”

“Why—I don’t believe I know the name.” Mrs. Terry blinked in some surprise at Mrs. Dere’s vehemence. “Ought I too?”

“Indeed you ought! We all ought. I was speaking with the Weatherills myself and learned from them that there is a very good reason the other Oxford schools refused him.” Her gaze swept the room to ensure she had their full attention before she pronounced ominously, “I’m afraid there is some…irregularity as to the boy’s parentage.”

“Dear me,” murmured Mrs. Barstow, knowing she must interject, for Adela’s sake.

“Which is to say,” Mrs. Dere kept on, “he is the natural son of somebody. Some dreadful town rake—”

“That is not how Adela phrased it,” ventured Mrs. Barstow in her soft voice.

But Mrs. Dere had already turned on the baron. “Sir—surely you cannot approve of this? The Weatherills’ school exists only on your sufferance. Therefore, should not they be more select in whom they choose to educate?”

“I’m sure—” Lord Dere began to wind himself up.

“And Mrs. Barstow,” Mrs. Dere’s golden head whipped back to regard her. “Surely you do not want your son Gordon taught alongside—someone of dubious parentage?”

Poor Mrs. Barstow colored, her mouth working a moment, and then she hazarded a deprecating, “If Gerard and Della think no harm will come of it. There is nothing…catching about illegitimacy, after all. I am certain if the child has—wicked tendencies—that would prove another matter.”

Rather than soothing their hostess, Mrs. Barstow’s words had the opposite effect, and Mrs. Dere’s magnificent bosom swelled. To be thus crossed, in her own (or very nearly her own) drawing room? And look at her uncle sitting there, saying nothing, as usual! What was the world coming to?

“I fear we must agree to disagree, madam,” she said curtly. “I am not at all convinced of the advisability of this course. In fact, I have already informed the Weatherills that if this Archibald Wilson starts at Keele’s, then Keele’s must carry on without my Peter. I will withdraw him. If I must hire another private tutor for him, so be it, but there are certain standards which must be maintained.”

“Mrs. Dere—” began the rector.

But the baron’s niece had worked herself to a pitch of indignation. “Mrs. Barstow, I understand that, given your own son’s place in life and the—regrettable circumstances with which your family has already been connected, you might be less particular about such things, but I have a responsibility not only to my son but to the name and barony of Dere.”

Thus must the biblical Joshua have sounded when he thundered, “As for me and my house, we will serve the Lord!” And in the electric silence which fell, probably it was not only Jane Merritt’s heart hammering. But it was certainly only Jane Merritt who then sprang to her feet, and it was Jane Merritt’s voice alone which rang out.

“I suppose, Mrs. Dere, when you refer to my family’s ‘regrettable circumstances’ and the connections burdening my innocent brother Gordon, you refer to me. ”