Page 21 of Mrs. Merritt’s Remorse (Lord Dere’s Dependents #2)

A rich Rogue now-a-days is fit Company for any Gentleman; and the World, my Dear, hath not such a Contempt for Roguery as you imagine.

— John Gay, The Beggar’s Opera (1728)

The day Lord Dere’s carriage would fetch her home, Jane’s first and only letter arrived from Iffley.

Perryfield

Iffley

12 November 1802

Dear Mrs. Merritt,

Although the baron informs me you will return home tomorrow, I could not allow you to do so without warning, as we had this morning a most surprising conference with one of our neighbors from Greenwood Hall, specifically Mrs. Rowland. (Mr. Rowland was also present, but as he said nothing but Good Morning and Good-Bye, I will pass over him.) Lord Dere and I had not seen Mrs. Rowland since the night of the ball, having sent only a bare note of thanks afterward, for reasons you will guess. Nor did we see any of the Greenwood party in church, for we suppose they continue to worship in Cowley (if they attend church at all). The baron has continued much affronted by the liberties Mr. Beck took with you, but I do not need to tell you he received the visitors with a courtesy they did not deserve.

After the niceties were dispensed with (including some teasing on her part, that no one at Greenwood Hall was informed you had left Iffley, and they were left to learn it when they called at the cottage), we discovered Mrs. Rowland’s sole purpose in coming to Perryfield was to sing the praises of Mr. Beck and to see how we took it. In brief, Mrs. Merritt, I suspect Mr. Beck’s interest in you continues and can only conclude that, having now made this interest clear to the baron through his go-between, he may even be contemplating making you an offer! What other conclusion can be drawn, astonishing as it is?

When she had gone, I told the baron as much, and while he hemmed and hawed in his usual fashion, he implied that he would oppose any match. I, however, think an honorable offer worthy of consideration for a woman in your position. Given the events of the past, it is not likely you will receive another, if you will pardon me for saying so; therefore this one is not to be refused lightly. If ever the incident of the ball were to become more widely known, coupled with your actions of recent years, your reputation would sink still further, possibly never to recover. Thus, whatever Mr. Beck’s past mistakes (and you must be the first to agree no one is without mistakes), if he plans to reform now, why should you not be the beneficiary?

I trust you will give the matter all due consideration. Please give my compliments to the Weatherills.

With sincere affection,

Alice Dere

Such a letter robbed Jane of speech, both for its content and its advice, and when Adela saw her sister go alternately red and white and red, she knew it would be useless to ask for an explanation.

“May I read it, Jane?”

Wordlessly Jane thrust the paper at her and then propped her feet up on the fender because what was the use of being ladylike, when everyone seemed to have decided she was no longer a lady?

“Oh! Oh, my word!” sputtered Adela when she recovered the power of speech. “If Mr. Beck weren’t so dreadful, it might almost be worth marrying him, so you might have the power to tell Mrs. Dere to mind her own business! Though I marvel at the flexibility of her conscience. It swings like a pendulum, tick tock. Tick: Archie Wilson’s company would corrupt Peter Dere. Tock: never mind, let us welcome Mr. Beck to Iffley society. Tick: oh no, he won’t do after all, if he is going to kiss people at balls! Tock: never mind again, he’s perfectly acceptable because he offers marriage. It’s enough to make one giddy.” She clicked her tongue at her sister. “Don’t look like that, dearest Jane! Absolutely no one but Mrs. Dere will encourage you to accept him, if he really does ask.”

“Mm,” said Jane. Removing her feet from the fender, she subsided on the knobby sofa, burying her face in the upholstery.

“Mm, what?”

“Mm, she does have a point. No one will ever propose to me again.”

However much Adela would have liked to contradict her sister, the plain truth was Adela had mournfully said almost those exact words to her husband Gerard more than once. On this occasion, however, she compromised by saying stoutly, “To marry such a one as Mr. Beck would be worse than never marrying again.”

“Poor Lord Dere,” was Jane’s next, unexpected remark to the sofa cushions. “He probably hoped, when he took in Mama and all of us, that at least we would all grow up and be married, and he might only be left with Mama, but now look! It will be Mama and me and possibly Sarah, forever and ever.”

“Nonsense,” retorted Adela, though admittedly without her usual conviction.

“And one day the dear baron will die, and then what will become of us? Mrs. Dere will be so grudging of our dependence that life will be hard to bear.”

Practical Adela had of course already thought of these things, and she said, “Surely good Lord Dere will provide a little legacy, and possibly even a life-lease on the cottage. He knows Mrs. Dere’s nature as well as we do.”

But Jane wasn’t attending. “Thank heavens Frances and Maria grow prettier every day,” she mused. “And Mrs. Dere favors Frances, so perhaps she might help her to catch a rich husband, and we may all become our future brother-in-law’s dependents.”

“Not all men are unsympathetic,” murmured her sister, now following her own thoughts just as Jane pondered hers. “Some might understand and forgive what has gone before, especially when the wrongs committed were done in youth.” Adela imagined some anonymous older, wiser gentleman who might enter her sister’s life at some point—perhaps a widowed father of a future Keele’s pupil? Adela would invite Jane for a longer visit, then, one which might coincide with the father’s comings and goings. It was not that Mr. Philip Egerton did not enter Adela’s mind despite his relative youth, but Jane had told her of the curate’s intentions toward Miss Hynde and thus disqualified him. (And while Della might wonder at Mr. Egerton’s preferences, that was neither here nor there.)

But this was no time to dream of embryo future husbands for Jane—not when Lord Dere’s carriage would be at Keele’s within the hour, and both sisters must shake off their reverie to pack Jane’s belongings.

“Perhaps Mrs. Dere is deceived, and he has no intention of making an offer,” Adela said as she lined a box with paper to carry Jane’s purchases.

“Indeed, it would be out of character,” agreed Jane hopefully. “Mrs. Rowland might have been sent to Perryfield for a different purpose altogether—to determine if the baron took umbrage at Mr. Beck and to mollify him if he had.”

“Exactly. And Mrs. Dere cannot be angry with you if you do not accept a proposal you do not receive, so all will turn out.”

“Yes, Della,” said Jane, crumpling the clean shifts in her arms in her eagerness to be persuaded. “After all, why should Mr. Beck want to marry me, when he never has wanted to marry anyone before?”

Adela might have added that other pretty faces were easily found, not to mention pretty faces with damaged reputations, and Alexander Beck had never offered for any of them , but she kept her counsel and instead folded Jane in a hug.

Jane’s determined optimism lasted until she was handed into the Perryfield landau by Harker and the door shut behind her. It being a blustery day which threatened rain, both covers had been raised, and she was alone.

“If I were Adela, or if Adela had been in my situation, she might have married Mr. Beck,” Jane told the empty seat opposite her. “For though he would make a wretched husband and will probably keep a mistress and father more Archies, if he pays off the mistresses and educates the illegitimate offspring, would he not be even more generous to his lawful family? Mama and Sarah and Frances and Maria and Gordy and little Bash would then be made secure for life, even after the dear baron dies and leaves all to Peter Dere and his mother.”

But Jane was not her sister Adela, and perhaps if Lord Dere had been rascally like Mr. Beck, even Adela could not have found it in her heart to marry him. Jane Merritt being Jane Merritt, she could only resolve for the hundredth time to watch herself and do all she could to avoid further injuring her family’s well-being.

She alit at Iffley Cottage to be wrapped in as much warmth as if she had been gone a twelvemonth. Sitting with Bash on her lap, flanked by the dog and cat, she answered all their questions about Oxford and the Weatherills, distributed her gifts to general delight, and said, yes, she did know about Miss Hynde’s early departure and had in fact seen her at the Angel Inn. More details on that last would have to wait, for in the first pause Gordon burst out with, “Jane, is it true? Peter says you’re going to marry that Mr. Beck person.”

His female relations turned on him reprovingly for his tactlessness, and only when the chorus died away did Jane stammer, “Mr.—Mr. Beck hasn’t asked me.”

Her younger brother made a face at this evasion. “But supposing he does, Jane.”

“Then—no. If he does, no. Certainly no.”

“That’s what I told Peter,” said Gordon. He gave his family a playful scowl. “And you all needn’t have jumped at me, when you wanted to ask the same thing.”

“We knew without asking that Jane would not want to marry him,” retorted Frances.

“I didn’t know that!” cried Maria. “But why shouldn’t you, Jane, when Mr. Beck is rich and handsome and feels bad for almost killing you!” (Suffice to say, Maria had been considered too young to be told of the Greenwood ball incident.)

Again Jane felt the unaccountable giggle bubbling in her throat, and she buried her face against little Bash’s plump, sweet-smelling head to hide it. “Well, I can’t marry him out of pity.”

“I’m sorry we didn’t write to you while you were gone,” began Mrs. Barstow. “We didn’t want to alarm you.”

“Because Mr. Beck and the Rowlands and Mr. Hardy came to call in your absence,” Frances took up the thread. “Purportedly to talk about the ball, but really they didn’t stay long when they learned you had gone away to Oxford. Then they only wanted to know when you would return.”

Although none of this surprised Jane, her good humor flagged perceptibly.

“And then Mrs. Dere told me Mrs. Rowland also came alone to call on them at Perryfield,” Frances added.

Heaving a sigh, Jane set her little nephew back down to toddle around. “Yes. Mrs. Dere wrote to me about Mrs. Rowland’s visit. And if she told you about it, Frances, you likely have told everyone—and Mrs. Dere has clearly expressed it in Peter’s hearing—that she would approve the match. If any offer is forthcoming, that is, and despite the baron not being persuaded of the fitness of it.”

“And why should he be persuaded?” her mother asked. “Lord Dere would not overlook roguery simply because it was plastered over with money or a handsome face.”

“But what has Mr. Beck done?” asked Maria plaintively.

No one answered her, but Sarah, who had taken up her little boy and held him at his request to see out the front window, gave a gasp. “He is coming! Mr. Beck!”

What a scramble followed! Mrs. Barstow would have sent the younger children away, but Jane begged everyone please, please to stay (a request seconded by Maria and Gordon), though Frances pointed out that there simply wasn’t place for one more person to sit if they all remained, and then everyone must find work to occupy their hands, and Bash’s face must be wiped and his hair tidied.

“Mr. Beck,” announced the maid Reed, opening the parlor door on a family all tranquilly laying aside sewing, embroidery, schoolbooks, or the fox-and-geese board to rise and make their salutes.

Jane herself had lunged for the narrowest chair in the farthest corner of the room, one with arms she might grip to hide any trembling, and when she made her curtsey, nodding vaguely toward Mr. Beck’s knees, she perched in her chosen seat and took up her work again. That is, she took up Maria’s clumsy little sampler of a cottage surrounded by…trees(?) above floating swans(?), for it had been Maria she expelled from her place. Poor Maria had miscounted her satin stitches in the pinwheel border, so that some pinwheels swelled like sails before the wind and others drooped as if becalmed. In any case, Jane quickly threaded an embroidery needle with blue floss and began filling a corner of the cottage with petit point stitches.

Mr. Beck was not to be deterred, however, by her show of busyness. After making easy chit-chat with Mrs. Barstow for a minute, remarking on the fox-and-geese game Gordon and Maria engaged in, and patting Bash on the head and praising him to his mother, he picked up one of the unoccupied chairs and carried it to place beside Jane’s.

“What a pleasure to see you again, Mrs. Merritt. How did you find Oxford? Is it not odd that a place just minutes away by carriage can feel like an entirely different world?”

She completed her stitch.

So he was going to pretend nothing had happened, then? Two could play at that game.

Jane murmured appropriate responses, albeit cool ones, and continued her embroidery with such diligence that Beck was obliged to feign interest in her work.

“What idle dogs we men are, in comparison to you ladies! Here I sit, empty handed, while you all work and work, doing everything so skillfully.” Leaning over Maria’s sampler, both to find something specific in it to praise and to draw still nearer to Jane, the sight of Maria’s lopsided pinwheels and lumpish trees checkmated him. “Oh!” he said. “How—er—fanciful.”

Jane heard, rather than saw, Maria swell up, preparatory to explaining her work, and she quickly answered, “Thank you. It’s Iffley Cottage and the—some of the…trees nearby. And these—” pointing at the swans which were possibly also frogs “—are local fauna.”

“Marvelous,” Mr. Beck uttered, recovering. He slapped his knees to simulate enthusiasm. “Nothing you do, Mrs. Merritt, has its equal, to my eyes. Therefore—I wonder if I might speak with you…apart.”

“My goodness,” replied Jane. “Having only just returned to my family, I am loath to be away from them. And our cozy cottage hardly permits private conferences—I daresay you wouldn’t want to force everyone to abandon their comfortable seats.”

“Certainly not. We might walk in your charming little front garden for just a few minutes. You will be back to your—embroidery—before you know it.”

Biting back a sigh, Jane made quick calculations: the sooner she heard him, the sooner it would be done with, and at least walking with him before the house and in view of the road would preclude him forcing more unwelcome kisses upon her. Moreover, there would be fewer eavesdroppers out of doors, unless Reed or one of the Barstows chose to open a window and apply an ear to the gap.

“Very well,” she answered crisply. “Let us walk there.” Chin raised, she tossed aside Maria’s sampler and rose, smoothing her dress and marching away before Beck could scramble up himself to offer his arm.

“Mrs. Merritt, I have offended you,” he said when they were alone and pacing the frosted grass.

He had, and she was not in the mood to deny it, so she said nothing.

“At the ball, your beauty overwhelmed me, and I acted thoughtlessly on what I believed to be your invitation.”

“It was not an invitation,” said Jane. “It was my own na?ve thoughtlessness.” She turned before they reached the dormant flowerbeds, that they might stay in sight of the front windows. “I would never like such a scene repeated, Mr. Beck. Never.”

“Nor shall you!” he declared, whirling to stand in her path, gloved fist on hip, dark eyes flashing and tousled locks tousling. (One part of Jane’s brain remained detached enough to think Frances would enjoy this show, for, in appearance at least, Mr. Beck embodied the hero of a romantic novel.)

“My friends think me a fool—save Hardy,” continued Jane’s admirer. “My stepsister Mrs. Rowland, in particular, claims I have been taken in—but she admits you play your cards well, Mrs. Merritt.”

Jane’s bosom swelled with indignation, but before she could find words Mr. Beck’s momentum carried him onward. “Mrs. Rowland says any woman who has seen what you have seen and done what you have done should content herself with attracting a worthy man’s attentions, whether they be honorable or otherwise. She grants you your superior looks, you understand, and your connection to Lord Dere, to save you from a less exalted fate—and she violently opposed my doing more for you, but—ah, Mrs. Merritt! I am a man under a spell, from the moment you rose from the pavement after I nearly knocked you down with my gig. Then I was the one knocked down, you see, metaphorically speaking. I, Alexander Beck, who have never been ensnared by any woman, though many have tried. I had fallen, never to get up. And when you kissed me—”

“I never kissed you!” flashed Jane when she choked down some of her fury. “I never did! You kissed me! ”

“—I knew all was lost, and I must have you, whatever the price!” Snatching her hand, he clutched it to his manly breast as he dropped to one knee. “Say you will have me, Mrs. Merritt! I offer you my hand and heart, my name and all my worldly goods. Only say the word and all I have is yours!”

“Get up, Mr. Beck,” she hissed, tugging in vain to free her hand. “Get up. You will regret this folly, and we had better forget it ever happened.”

“It may be folly, but I embrace it passionately,” he returned, giving his dark locks another enchanting toss. “I only regret having angered you at the ball, so that you must make this show of reluctance now. Not that it does not have its own, contrary appeal. In fact—”

In fact, the contrary appeal proved too much again for Mr. Beck’s minimal self-control, and he sprang at her like a wild beast from the brake, smashing his person to hers and his devouring mouth, yet again, to her close-shut one.