Page 24 of Mrs. Merritt’s Remorse (Lord Dere’s Dependents #2)

A throbbing conscience spurred by remorse

Hath a strange force.

— George Herbert, “Storm” in The Temple (1633)

He found the older Mrs. Barstow alone in the modest front parlor of Iffley Cottage.

“Why, good afternoon, Mr. Egerton,” she greeted him, her eyes flitting to his rather damp greatcoat. (He had carefully scraped his boots before knocking.) “You find me alone because the young people were desperate to be out of doors when it stopped raining. I wonder you did not see them. They have gone on a walk.”

“All of them?” he asked, wondering if his sister had been mistaken, and Mrs. Merritt had kept away from church for some other reason.

But no. Mrs. Barstow flushed, holding up her palms. “Well—all but my dear Jane. She—she—er—”

When she did not finish her sentence, he said gently, “I came to speak with her particularly, Mrs. Barstow. To apologize for my part in last week’s to-do, that is. Will she see me, do you think?”

She hesitated, her brow furrowing in thought.

“Perhaps I had better start with you, madam,” he added. In for a penny, in for a pound. “My sister Miss Egerton told me very emphatically that I made a bad situation worse—far worse—the other day by letting Mr. Beck provoke me. But while I seem to have been universally forgiven my loss of control, Mrs. Merritt…still feels the burden of others’ misconduct.” She was staring at the carpet by this point, but Philip persevered. “And for this injustice to her, Mrs. Barstow, which is therefore an injustice done to your entire family, I beg your pardon.”

If only it might go as well with Mrs. Merritt, for her mother’s politeness thawed into affection. Beaming upon him, she impulsively took his hand between both her own and pressed it. “Thank you, Mr. Egerton, for your words. They were not necessary—Mr. Beck alone is to blame—but they are deeply, deeply appreciated. I will pass them on to Jane.”

It was his turn to color. “I thank you as well, Mrs. Barstow, but do you not believe she will see me? Selfishly I want to ask the forgiveness of the chief person I have wronged. And she too might like to have someone say she is not at fault.”

“You are right. Yes. You are right, Mr. Egerton.” Giving his hand another squeeze, she released it. “She is walking in the back yard. She too longed for fresh air. If you go through the kitchen…”

Egerton had never seen the back yard of Iffley Cottage, and he found it a more serviceable area than the front garden. Here were several sheds and a work-house, as well as a kitchen garden now barren but for cabbages, potatoes, and squashes. The fruit trees espaliered against the brick walls would provide ornament in spring and fruit in summer but this late in the year were leafless, as were the large mulberry trees in the center, encircled by stone benches. Flagstone paths wound throughout, widening in one central place to a small terrace. And it was on this terrace that the bottom of a ladder was placed, the top leaning into the branches of the tallest mulberry tree. On the third step of this ladder Mrs. Merritt poised on tiptoe, her back to him, peering (Egerton surmised) over the brick wall into the street.

A passing carriage muffled the sound of his approach, so that when he reached her he found it necessary to clear his throat. “Er—Mrs. Merritt.”

With a guilty start, she whipped around to see who addressed her, but the sudden movement sent her foot skating off the wet ladder rung! Down she pitched, and if not for him instinctively throwing out his arms, she would surely have injured herself. And though Egerton’s frame was solid, few people can catch an unevenly distributed burden of eight-odd stone without repercussions, and he crumpled to the terrace in turn.

“Oh, Mr. Egerton!” she cried, trying to disentangle herself. “Have I hurt you?”

He did not answer straight away, nor move—he was taking stock. Not only of the awkward way he had landed on his hip or the throb which told him he had also hit his shoulder, but of the warmth and softness and disturbingly pleasant weight of her person atop his. Never mind that her elbow jabbed him as she struggled up, or that a lock of her hair brushed against his lips. When she did manage to wriggle off of him, he felt strangely bereft.

Slowly, he sat up, unable to prevent a wince when his hip protested.

“I have ,” she fretted. “I have hurt you. I am so sorry.”

“It’s—nothing,” he grunted. “But perhaps if you would help me up…”

Putting much of his weight on his good leg, he draped an arm over Mrs. Merritt’s shoulders to bear the rest. She in turn placed a spread hand to his chest and leaned her head into him to keep them balanced as he halted over to the nearest bench, a delightful journey despite the discomfort, and he had the mad wish that the bench were a mile further off. But it was not, and with muttered thanks he dropped heavily onto it.

“Please pardon me for surprising you. Your mother told me you were out here.”

Her hazel eyes had been fixed on his face, but now they fell to the pavers. “It—wasn’t only surprise. It was half guilt, I’m afraid.”

Although she didn’t see his grin, she could hear it. “Guilt? Good heavens. Did I catch you peeping at something?”

But her head hung lower. “The world. You caught me peeping at the world. Or our little corner of it.”

It all came flooding back to him then. The scandal. Her retreat. Her unjust punishment. And with the knowledge came the obligation he had laid on himself. In an impulse to provide comfort (a wholly pastoral one, he hoped) his hand lifted in her direction, levitating an instant above the bench, before falling back again.

“Yes. Mrs. Merritt. I hoped I might have a word with you.”

Again her limpid eyes rose to his, a gleam of rueful humor in them. “Have away, sir. I have no other plans for the afternoon.”

“Well, it seemed fair to ask. I hear you have placed yourself under house arrest, so you could hardly avoid me if you wanted to.”

Another gleam. This one hinting at mischief. “Ah, but I could now, having crippled you, or at least having slowed you down. If I don’t like your conversation, I can skip into the house and leave you to limp or crawl back as you may.”

The changes in her mood, alternating between light and dark, fascinated him, and before he thought he said, “You are playful, Mrs. Merritt.”

At once she shrank, and Egerton could have kicked himself. “I know,” she murmured. “It’s inappropriate under the circumstances, but I seem doomed to impropriety.” She shook her head slowly. “Roger. My elopement. The debts. The imprisonment. The Greenwood ball. The Angel Inn. Mr. Beck again.”

“No—” his own hand rose and fell again. “I did not mean to imply your amusement was inappropriate. At all. I rather liked it. In fact, I have come to say precisely the opposite. And if I had known you blamed yourself for the Angel Inn as well, I should have come sooner.”

Making a vague sound in her throat, Jane wrung her hands. Then, making up her mind, she straightened, shifting suddenly on the bench to face him.

He was not the only one who could do good deeds, she had decided.

“Yes,” she said. “About the Angel Inn…I am sorry Miss Hynde was so angry with me. And that we made such a scene. I am sorry as well that she should be so misled by Mr. Beck’s character and—handsomeness. But I want to assure you, Mr. Egerton, that—away from him—he will fade from her memory and—her heart with time. I truly believe it. That is to say, there is no danger that she will—fall into the same errors I did. Especially now that she has been removed from my—bad example—as you put it at the ball—”

“Mrs. Merritt, that is not what I—”

“Therefore—” she hurried on, “you need not fear for her. And…I know, in time, she will certainly—that is, she could not help but—but come to recognize your…vast superiority.”

Color flooded his face. His lips parted.

Jane went red herself at his response. Oh, heavens—did she really just say what she said? That she thought him superior? Vastly so? Oh—why did she not think before she spoke? Because he had surprised her—he had surprised the admission from her. Oh oh oh! Why not be done with it, then , you ninny, she berated herself. Why not simply throw yourself at his feet ?

She was almost panting in her distress, which only increased her mortification. And then she made matters even worse by inhaling sharply—so sharply she knew at once she had given herself hiccups, and her hands flew to cover her mouth.

“You—take great interest in Miss Hynde’s—the state of her heart,” he fumbled. “And the state of my own.”

“Forgive me,” she croaked, feeling the urge to hiccup increase as she tried to stifle it. But when could hiccups ever be stifled? Like murder, they would out.

“It was not my PLACE to mention such—such PER sonal matters.” The loud spasms only made the situation more awful, and Jane thought she must be heard in Cowley.

Politely, he made no acknowledgement of her embarrassment. Perhaps he was too embarrassed himself. “Who told you I wanted to marry Miss Hynde?” he asked, his voice low as if to compensate for her racket.

“ OH , dear. I should not have SAID anything. I hate gossip, of course. It is—not my concern whom you MARRY .” Clapping her hand over her mouth once more, she shook her head vehemently, holding her breath and hardly knowing if she was about to laugh or cry.

Egerton was scarcely less distressed, perspiration breaking out on his forehead despite the November chill. The initial delight which darted through him—Mrs. Merritt thought him superior to Beck?—was chased away the next second when comprehension set in. Wait—Mrs. Merritt knew he wanted to marry Miss Hynde? But how? Had she guessed it, or had someone told her? And if Mrs. Merritt knew, how many others did? Would those others include Miss Hynde?

Worse, what if it were Miss Hynde herself who told her?

“Who told you?” he asked again.

Saying a little prayer that he would not be vexed with Cassie and waiting for a hiccup to pass, Jane whispered in a burst, “Your sister mentioned it once. By accident. Only to ME and then asked me not to say anything, which I HAVEN’T.” Back went her hand over her mouth, and she held another breath.

“Ah.” Any annoyance he might have felt toward his sister for her indiscretion yielded to relief that the tale-teller had not been Miss Hynde.

They were silent a minute. Another carriage passed in the street. Tentatively, Jane released her breath, crossing her fingers that her hiccups had passed.

“Please don’t be upset, Mr. Egerton,” she began again, thankfully with no embarrassing spasms. “With Cassie. It was very early on, when Miss Hynde and your uncle and cousin came for your reading in. She has never talked of it since, to me or anyone, I am certain. And—if anyone else guesses at it—and I am not saying anyone has—but if they were to, it would only be idle talk. Because you are a single gentleman and Miss Hynde such a—lovely girl.”

“Mm.” (If Cassie had been present, she certainly would have told her brother again not to grunt.)

In her determination to be honest where possible, Jane had praised Miss Hynde’s undeniable beauty rather than to list the young lady’s more doubtful qualities, but it cost her all the same, and she assumed her companion’s wordlessness stemmed from blissful contemplation of said beauty.

She assumed wrongly.

It wasn’t Miss Hynde’s appearance Egerton pondered, though it was the only part of her he admired as much as he used to. He was considering the rest of Mrs. Merritt’s remark. Because she was right, of course. Others would have come to the same conclusion about him and Miss Hynde themselves, Cassie or no Cassie! For the Egertons to invite a single and singularly pretty young lady to the rectory—of course everyone must think they did it either to marry her off or to earmark her as Egerton’s own.

And if everyone must think that, how could Miss Hynde be an exception?

Which presented his uncle’s letter in still another possible light: could Miss Hynde have hinted to Martha or to Uncle Geoffrey that Philip intended to ask her, and that he had better not try?

There was no way to know. But one thing was clear. If everyone expected him to make an offer for her, including Miss Hynde herself, notwithstanding her possible refusal, was he not now honor-bound to make that offer?

With sinking heart, his posture slumped, causing his shoulder to twinge. Absently, Egerton rolled it.

Noticing his dejection, Jane could not help wanting to lift it. “Don’t distress yourself, Mr. Egerton,” she soothed. “If Miss Hynde is—displeased with you at present, it may only be because she is young, and as a young person, she wants to make choices for herself, even if you might think they are bad ones. They are at least hers, and therefore preferable in her mind to having—someone—interfere—to keep her on the straight and narrow. At her age I daresay I thought much the same thing.” In her eagerness she laid hold of his sleeve, bending to catch his downturned gaze. “Truly, sir. Miss Hynde will come to love you. If my own experience has taught me anything, it is that she will learn to value the true over the flashy.”

A line had appeared between his brows as he listened to her, and his eyes sharpened into their customary keenness. Abruptly Jane shut her mouth and removed her hand, certain he read her unspoken thoughts. Springing up, she ran nervous fingers along a twisting mulberry branch, picking at the moss tufted in the cracked bark. Jane Merritt, you fool! Having got away with your other confession, do you push your luck? The man already considers you his parish charity case—do not give him cause to pity you for worse reasons.

“You asked for a word with me, sir,” she blurted, turning in time to see him struggling to his feet. “Oh—please—you needn’t get up. It was only—I was restless. You wanted to speak with me, did you not? And I would guess it was not about Miss Hynde. Having already caused you—er—physical discomfort, let me not add to my sins by wasting more of your time.”

“It was no waste,” he murmured, but he gladly sank to the bench again. He would have wondered again at the fluctuations of her mind, if his own had not been too full to dwell on them. He touched his forearm, where he could still feel the warm imprint of her hand.

“Yes. Let me come to the point, Mrs. Merritt. You have been so candid, so frank this afternoon. I will try to emulate you.” He hesitated. “I wish…I wish you might sit down again. I will not take much longer.”

Without a word she obeyed, her skirts fanning out to brush against his leg. But this time she wrapped her arms tightly about herself.

“I came here to apologize. I should have thought of this myself, but I’m ashamed to say it was Cassie who pointed it out. That I contributed to your most recent woes by letting Beck nettle me and flying at him as if—as if I knew no better than Harry Barbary. Cassie says, had I not done so and drawn things out, not a soul in Iffley would have known of Beck’s latest—insult—and I fear she is right.”

“Oh.” It was not so much a sound Jane made as a shape with her lips.

“And for my lack of self-control, you are paying the price.” He gave a mirthless chuckle, shaking his head. “Beck outrages you, I make a fearful row, and it is somehow you who must hide your head. It isn’t fair, Mrs. Merritt. Not in the least.”

Her mouth worked again, but then she pressed her lips together fiercely, afraid she would break down.

“Mrs. Merritt,” he said gently, “as both your priest and—I hope—as your friend, I intend to make this better. I will explain things to the baron and Mrs. Dere and even stroll past the Tree Inn before the week is out to have a ‘casual’ chat with Mrs. Lamb. Which is altogether more effective than an advertisement in the Oxford Chronicle , you will surely agree.”

Then Jane did cry and laugh at the same time, but the tears made her eyes shine, and the smile she turned on Egerton made him think the bargain well made.

“Oh—thank you, Mr. Egerton. Thank you. But then—are you not afraid of having some of the scandal redound to your disadvantage?”

Removing his hat to rake long fingers through his hair, he grinned at her. “The injustice continues, I’m afraid. Because apart from a reprimand from my bishop, what drove you to retreat behind these walls only covered me in glory. I refer to martial glory—most unusual in my profession.”

“Despite there being no clear winner?”

His grin widened, and he looked almost boyish. Harry Barbary indeed.

“How very kind of you, Mrs. Merritt, to judge I held my own. But no. When one is a curate, victory in warfare is not required. The attempt is enough.”

“And Cassie did not scold you for attacking him?” she asked shyly.

“If she did I have already forgotten. There are six of us Egerton offspring, after all, so violence is nothing new under the sun. Don’t tell me you Barstows never quarreled and tussled, though there was only one boy among you.”

Dimpling, she replied, “We did when we were younger. If you count hair-pulling and name-calling and kicking.”

“I most certainly count those things.”

“Della—my older sister—and I were the guiltiest, I’m sorry to say.”

“Dear me. Next time I will let you handle Mr. Beck yourself.”

At this her eyes flashed fire. “If there is a next time, I will! ”

“Mercy,” he said with a mock shudder. “To show my repentance, and for Beck’s own safety, perhaps I should warn him when he returns from his shooting trip.”

“Has he gone away?” Jane asked eagerly.

“He has. And taken his train with him. He did not tell me himself, of course, but he kindly sent word to Archie Wilson. Not that Archie would know whether his guardian were in Iffley or Iceland,” Egerton added frowning.

By that Jane understood that Mr. Beck had not been in the habit of visiting his ward at the rectory. She felt sorry for the young boy—assuming Archie minded—but not sorry enough to wish Beck would ever return.

“So there we have it,” said Egerton, slapping his palms on his knees. “In another day, two at the most, I will have made my rounds through the village, and then I hope ‘thou shalt shine forth, thou shalt be as the morning.’ Give me your hand, Mrs. Merritt, as proof of my pardon, and promise me you will come out again to bless all Iffley.”

Color washed across her face, but she complied, turning toward him on the bench. He took her hand in his firm grip, playfully giving her arm a single pump to seal the bargain. But then the pleasant sensation of her little slender fingers took him by surprise, and he held them a second too long, every ounce of his blood seeming to rush to the spot where they joined, while the contrast of her downcast dark lashes against her scarlet cheeks roused something like alarm in him.

Yes—surely it was alarm or embarrassment which made him say in his most sensible, business-like voice (as he would think back on it later, cringing), “Well, then! That’s one pastoral duty accomplished. A few more to go. All in a day’s work.”

No sooner did the stiff words pass his lips than he saw her mental retreat, as clearly as if she had drawn shut a curtain.

“Yes,” she agreed softly, rising, removing her hand from his without undue haste. “This task being accomplished, you may proceed to the next on your list. I thank you again for your time. Good day, Mr. Egerton.”