Page 22 of Mrs. Merritt’s Remorse (Lord Dere’s Dependents #2)

His virtue, such as it was, could not stand the pressure of occasion.

— Ann Radcliffe, The Romance of the Forest (1791)

Yet once more the overmuchness of Mr. Beck pressed fully upon Jane, reducing her scream of fury to a muffled “mm-ee—mm,” unheard above his own ardent groans and murmurs and thwarting as well her attempts to bite him. She could only pray her family was indeed watching from the front window, and that someone—anyone—would burst out to interrupt.

Frances did not fail her.

The front door flew open with a bang, her younger sister bellowing, “There you go, Bash! A perfect day to play out of doors. Go find your auntie Jane.” She gave her nephew a push, but the little boy only gawped in puzzlement still holding his Jacob’s Ladder, having just been scooped up from the carpet two seconds earlier. It required the appearance of his mother the next moment, his coat in her hands, to rouse him, but then he toddled off as fast as his plump legs would carry him.

As Frances intended, Mr. Beck released Jane upon hearing they were no longer alone, but only to an arm’s length, and he lifted his voice to say in the cold, carrying air, “Shall you tell them, Jane, or shall I?”

“Yes, Mrs. Merritt, do not keep us in suspense,” another voice rejoined, equally loud but considerably brisker. “Do tell. Am I to bestow your vicar’s blessing?”

And there—oh, heavens! Why was she so mercilessly, unceasingly, inexplicably cursed ?—at the cottage gate stood Mr. and Miss Egerton, his hand on the latch and his sister’s on his arm—one might almost have thought—to restrain him.

For one so young, Jane’s life held more than its share of Worst Moments, but this one shot easily to the upper ranks. It was so ridiculous that she could hardly comprehend it. Why must Mr. Egerton forever and always be catching her in compromising situations, and why must all of them be directly traceable to Mr. Beck, whom Jane had never once asked or wished to love her?

It's not fair, Jane seethed, as Miss Egerton loosened her hold and allowed her brother to open the gate. It’s not fair, and I simply won’t stand for it. I don’t care what he thinks—his estimation of me could not be lower, at any rate, nor my reputation worse. I will tell the truth. Because it is either that or to throttle Mr. Beck right here, right now, with my bare hands.

“She is speechless,” began her would-be lover, beaming upon his new audience and swelling like a rooster about to issue the morning’s first, triumphant, cock-a-doodle-doo. “But I cannot keep silent. Rejoice with us, for the lovely Mrs. Merritt has consented to be my bride.”

Bash alone received this news with equanimity, giggling when the dog Poppet jumped at him and sent him plopping down on his backside. Sarah and Frances stared, mouths falling open. Perplexity furrowed Miss Egerton’s brow. And Mr. Egerton—well—Jane had seen statues less stiff.

All this she took in in an eyeblink, and then she forced her (newly) bruised lips into speech. At least she had practice in this now, and knew to speak slowly and exaggeratedly, to make herself understood.

“That…is not so.”

Mr. Beck chuckled ruefully. “She is right to correct me, and I accept it with all humility. Good practice for a man who hopes soon to be married. As my darling points out, she has not in fact accepted me yet. She had no chance because I could not withhold further—heh heh—further proofs of my affection.”

“Your…proofs,” replied Jane with painstaking clarity, “only delayed my inevitable refusal. And I beg again never to have them or your offer repeated.”

The Barstow ladies sagged in relief, but it went unnoticed because all eyes were on Mr. Beck, whose smile faltered. “But—my very dear Jane—”

And despite her resolve to speak the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help her God, Jane wavered as well. Honesty might be her goal, and his persistence might compel her to make herself very, very clear, but perhaps she had overstepped into cruelty. Whether she had or not, Mr. Beck’s crestfallen features could not fail to operate on her. Therefore she said more softly, “I am sorry to tell you in this manner, but you would not listen.”

Giving him that inch, however, encouraged him to take an ell, and Mr. Beck lifted his square jaw, determined to hurl himself once more unto the breach. “You object because I did not apply first to Lord Dere or your mother for your hand.”

“I—what? No, sir.”

“Then you object because I alluded to your sullied past,” he persisted, “instead of consigning it to oblivion and flattering you.”

A flush rose up her neck. “Mr. Beck. I have never denied what I have done. Any part of it. Not to you, nor to anyone. Your mention of it in this context was not chivalrous, but neither was it the deciding point. I thank you for your offer, but I—decline it. Whole-heartedly and—and— permanently.”

There was no mistaking her this second time, and the fact that he had indeed mistaken her now made matters worse. For now Beck was the one turning scarlet, the hands which had gripped her so tightly gathering in fists. That she would speak to him so dismissively—Alexander Beck, no mean prize in the matrimonial stakes—and in the presence of others!

“Augusta warned me of this,” he sneered.

“Augusta?” echoed Jane, drawing back from the glitter in his eyes.

“Augusta,” he snapped. “Mrs. Rowland. She could not understand why I should throw away my name and fortune on ‘a country miss with nothing to boast of but country manner and country ignorance.’”

“Now, see here, Beck,” interjected Mr. Egerton, released from his spell of paralysis so fleetly that Jane startled. The curate was suddenly between her and her rejected suitor, his own face in Beck’s, eye to eye and nose to nose. “There’s no call for insults. You have spoken your piece, and Mrs. Merritt has given you her reply.”

Undaunted in the face of this challenge, Beck not only held his ground but narrowed the distance between them another inch. “Stay out of this, Egerton. It does not concern you. You would have done better to keep on walking, rather than nosing into something so obviously private.”

Standing behind him, Jane could not see the curate’s face, but she heard his hesitation. A hesitation which acknowledged that Beck had made a fair hit.

“I might have,” conceded Egerton, “but—Mrs. Merritt being a—vulnerable member—of my flock, I thought it my duty—”

Beck’s features twisted so derisively the onlookers were amazed to see his handsomeness dissipated. Even Frances, though her tendre for the man had suffered a reverse after the Greenwood ball, wondered at the transformation.

“Your ‘duty,’” Beck mocked. “How keen you are to do your duty, Egerton, when there is a pretty young lady involved! I daresay, had you caught me making love to Mrs. Barbary or Mrs. Dere, you would have thought twice before interfering.”

The Barstow ladies could only thank Providence Mrs. Dere was not at hand, to hear herself mentioned in the same breath as Harry Barbary’s mother, and perhaps the conjunction explained why the curate went as red as his antagonist.

Perhaps, perhaps not.

“Watch yourself, Beck,” he answered, each word dropping like a stone in an icy pond. “If you wish to attack me, pray leave Mrs. Merritt and my other congregants out of it, or—or—”

“Dear me—or what?” sneered Beck. “Or you will excommunicate me? I’m no churchman, but I don’t believe you have the authority, humble curate that you are. You had far better run along and leave the grown-ups to settle this matter. Only look at you, standing there huffing and puffing! You heard me. Go on, then.”

Now, however much a man like Philip Egerton might honor the cloth and find satisfaction in his chosen profession, he was nevertheless but flesh and blood beneath that cloth, and there was only so much that flesh and blood could be asked to bear. This London coxcomb had been nothing but a thorn in his side since his first appearance in Iffley, when he nearly killed Mrs. Merritt! And now—after Egerton had graciously taken on his “ward” Archie’s tutelage, and after Egerton had banished his own would-be sweetheart because Beck had driven her out of her head—this scoundrel had the impudence to taunt him? To tell him to take himself off, while he, Beck, harassed Egerton’s flock however he liked?

With a roar that even his sister had not heard from him since he was a young boy, Egerton launched himself at Beck, only their nearness preventing them tumbling to the ground.

Shrieks rent the autumn air as the men grappled, each struggling for the most effective grip as they shoved and shouldered, alternately gaining and giving ground, boots sliding and kicking up clumps of grass and soil. Cassie Egerton was calling her brother’s name, whether from fear or to recall him to his senses not even she knew. Little Bash screeched, jumping up and down, trying to catch at the gentlemen’s coats in excitement, before wailing in rage when his mother snatched him away. Iffley Cottage emptied out, and before Jane could say Jack Robinson a dozen people drawn by the noise lined the low stone wall of the front garden, and there was Harry Barbary of all people swinging on the gate!

“Hurrah! Hurrah!” whooped the incorrigible youth.

The two men were too evenly matched in size and strength for one to prevail easily, and where Egerton’s fury cost him any cool-headedness, Beck underestimated his opponent’s abilities.

Altogether, Jane thought later, the tussle could not have lasted longer than a minute before it was brought to an abrupt close, not by one or the other’s victory, but by the unexpected clarion call of Mrs. Markham Dere: “What in mercy’s name is happening here?”

Magically, they broke apart. Beck swiping the back of his hand over his mouth and Egerton rubbing his knuckles. The latter’s eyes flicked to Jane’s, where she stood with her fingers pressed to her lips, before turning with every other gaze to face the chief lady of Iffley.

And it would be no exaggeration to say that every heart present sunk yet a few degrees more when none other than Mrs. Lamb the postmistress was spied over Mrs. Dere’s shoulder, Harry Barbary’s sleeve in her grasp and her nose twitching.

Now the whole county will hear of this! Jane despaired. Unlike the incident at the Greenwood ball, which had been witnessed only by a trusted few, this could not be hushed up.

But fear of (yet another) scandal took second place to Jane’s anxiety for Mr. Egerton and his part in this.

Mrs. Dere has no power over him , Jane assured herself. She cannot dismiss him. Mr. Terry would have to do that, and he is in Italy now.

But no sooner did Jane decide this than she thought of bishops and how bishops might be applied to, and how Mrs. Dere was precisely the sort of woman to apply to one. Jane could imagine the letter and the interview. She could even hear Mrs. Dere complaining of the unfitness of “brawling clergymen”—she would use that phrase, Jane supposed. Never mind that Mr. Beck had provoked Mr. Egerton! And Mrs. Dere thought Mr. Beck a suitable person to marry?

All these thoughts streaked like lightning through her mind. For his part, Mr. Beck did not seem inclined to make explanations, merely grinning lopsidedly despite his gashed lip. But next to her she heard Mr. Egerton draw a deep breath.

“Mrs. Dere,” blurted Jane before he could speak, “Mr. Egerton came upon my—my—my interview with Mr. Beck and—he—er—misinterpreted what he saw.” Wait—had she just told a lie? She had. For it had not been a misinterpretation on the curate’s part—he had assumed (and she had confirmed) that the embrace was forced upon her—

“He was a-kissing her,” declared Harry Barbary, pointing at Beck and back at Jane, “and then the priest and him had words, and then the priest goes for him.”

“That will do,” said Mrs. Dere quellingly. Or, in a tone which quelled ordinary folk, but on Harry it had no discernible effect.

“I knew Mrs. Lamb would want the long and short on’t,” he answered with a shrug, to which the good proprietress of the Tree Inn felt obliged to retort, “That’s all you know, boy!”

With a swish of her cloak, Mrs. Dere passed through the open gate into the front garden to take a prominent stand between the actors in the scene and the audience. “Mr. Beck,” she addressed him loudly, “I trust you have an announcement to make, which will render all clear and seemly?”

His lopsided grin widened to reveal more glistening teeth, and he shot Jane a glance full of equal parts challenge and revenge. “I can’t rightly say, Mrs. Dere. In these cases, doesn’t it always depend on the…lady’s answer?”

Jane blanched.

She understood him.

Despite her earlier refusal, if she now declared to the world that she was engaged to marry him, he would let it lie and there would be no scandal beyond an indulgent shaking of heads and clicking of tongues that the young people should seal their bargain in so public a fashion.

But if she told the truth…

And I told myself I would. Come what may.

How could she do otherwise? She could never, never marry such a man. Each new revelation of his character only repelled her further. But if she told the truth, Jane suspected he would be a terrible enemy to have. Spiteful. Vindictive. Possibly dishonorable. Oh, if only he would go away and pursue some other woman—one who would gladly receive his obnoxious attentions!

All eyes were fixed upon her, awaiting her answer, and Jane folded her arms, taking hold of her elbows for courage.

“Of course, such matters are private,” she began, relieved to hear the unsqueakiness of her voice, “concerning only the parties involved.”

“Should have thought of that before making a public spectacle,” muttered someone from the crowd at the gate, to be seconded with approving murmurs. “Not every parson would take up arms for you when he saw such doings.”

For once Mrs. Markham Dere’s majesty came to Jane’s aid, for she leveled a glare at the assembly, and they fell silent.

Clearing her throat, Jane soldiered onward. The truth . Still, the less said, the better.

“Mr. Beck did indeed make me an honorable offer—which I then refused.” Ignoring the general approbation, quickly followed by the general gasp, she wound up hastily. “He—er—pressed his point, and that was when Mr. Egerton intervened. So, that is all there is to be said. If you would excuse me…”

“You might have beaten Mrs. Dere down with a feather, she was so confounded!” Frances reported an hour later, when her mother finally permitted her to knock on Jane and Sarah’s bedroom door. Jane lay across the coverlet, a pillow over her head and her face turned toward the wall. “I’m afraid things aren’t going to be pleasant for us,” she continued, sounding more eager than dismayed, and hugging her knees to her as she sat on the bed. “Why Mrs. Dere wouldn’t even look at me when I tried to speak to her—she just turned on her heel and marched away. She slammed the gate so hard it stuck, and Mr. Beck had to vault over it a minute later. Miss Egerton could hardly be expected to do the same, of course, so Mr. Egerton and Irving had to work at it for some minutes until they could wrench it open again, though I kept saying they might go out the back door, if they were in a hurry.”

When Jane said nothing, her younger sister tried to see it from her perspective and concluded that, on balance, she would not be particularly interested in the difficulties with the gate either.

The door creaked open, and Frances saw her mother peek in, a question in her eyes. When Frances shrugged, Mrs. Barstow entered, to sit beside her second oldest daughter and lay a hand on her ankle.

“Darling,” she said, “this is not your fault. It is so horribly unfair that you, who have been such a model of good conduct since—since you came back to us. It is not a bit just that you should have to suffer because of Mr. Beck’s wrongdoing.”

At this, Jane rolled over heavily and raised red-rimmed eyes. “But don’t you see, Mama? It is my fault. That wretched Mr. Beck—he told me—several times—that he felt free to take liberties with me because of what I had done and seen. Because of my history, I mean. He thought I was being missish to object. Being false. He only offered to marry me because I resisted him, and I suppose that made me interesting.”

Mrs. Barstow pressed her lips together, giving Jane’s ankle another squeeze. “I am so very sorry.”

Jane sighed, heaving herself to a sitting position and clutching the pillow to her stomach. With her dark hair loose and her dress rumpled, she looked quite wild. “No, Mama. I am the one who is sorry. And now Mrs. Dere is doubly furious. Firstly because I refused Mr. Beck against her express wishes, and secondly because I involved the family in yet another scandal.”

“ He involved the family in yet another scandal,” insisted her mother, Frances agreeing with a vehement nod.

“Well, whoever did it, it doesn’t matter. She is angry, and this time there will be no containing the story, not with Mrs. Lamb and half of Iffley there as witnesses.”

“I will smooth it over, given some time,” Frances assured her stoutly. “You lie low, Jane, and when Mrs. Dere has calmed down she will allow me to explain. It’s only a matter of time. A month, maybe. Possibly two. After all, she warmed to you within six months of your first coming to Iffley, even after Della had put her in a temper, and this second time will go easier.”

Smiling sadly, Jane thought how nonchalantly Frances could speak of lying low for months. But Frances had not already done so for two long years. Unlike her sister, Frances had not just experienced the sweetness of beginning to live again after so long a dormancy.

“Perhaps I might go and stay with Gerard and Della again,” Jane suggested. “Mrs. Dere and everyone else might forget the fuss sooner if I am not underfoot. And though I cannot imagine Mr. Beck would ever call again, if I am in Oxford I might go for walks with little danger of encountering him.”

Her mother colored and made a placating face. “Certainly you might go again, but perhaps not straight away, darling. If—if Mrs. Dere did not want her son Peter in company with Archie Wilson, she may make objections to him seeing you at school.”

Too soon Jane saw the truth in this, and while she shoved down the self-pitying wail which threatened to escape her, she could not help her lip trembling. After a minute, she managed a nod.

Yes.

She would hide away from the world again, keeping out of sight within the walls of Iffley Cottage, not venturing farther than the back garden. For however long it took Frances to wheedle Mrs. Dere back into good humor and for the storm to blow over.

She owed her family that much.