Page 26 of Mrs. Merritt’s Remorse (Lord Dere’s Dependents #2)

I have lived to change my mind, and am almost of the contrary opinion.

— John Duncombe, Letters by several eminent persons deceased (1719)

Martha Cottrell and her cousin Philip had never been close, though they were the nearest in age. “Nearest” was relative, however, Martha being ten years older and more inclined to treat him as an older sister would a much younger brother.

Her letter, therefore, had been typical: superior, with a hint of reproval, and Philip might have dismissed it with a shrug as was his usual practice. It need not be given at length. But on this occasion, one particular passage troubled him very much.

Cousin, I have frank words for you and trust you will not take them amiss after all the years of affection between us. I guessed your intentions toward Felicity some time ago. Though I have always thought her a harmless, giddy creature, I recognized the powerful persuasion her looks would have on the male sex and quite expected her to return to Cottrell Hall an engaged young lady. And while I thought it would be wiser for you to wait until you secured the St. Lawrence living before you spoke, I realized you would likely not be able to resist her constant and immediate presence. Imagine my surprise, then, when she returned to us still single!

While she has never confided in me, she speaks with regrettable unreserve to her maid, and you know how servants will talk. In short, I have learned of her feelings for this third party and her resentment of you for separating her from him. All well and good, Philip. I do not write to you to criticize this course.

I write instead to warn you, though I daresay many would call me a disloyal daughter. For one so clever as you, will you guess it with just the one phrase, or must I spell it out, to my shame? I had thought my father long resigned to widowerhood after ten years, but I fear his eyes have been opened to Felicity’s charms. If you could see how he spoils her, in attempts to cheer her! And worse, in her anger at your “treatment,” and in her jealousy of some “horrid woman,” she relishes my father’s indulgence!

Therefore, Philip, if you intend to marry her, you had better come at once and make your intentions known to both her and to my father. In her present mood she will likely refuse you, but you need not let that stop you, and it is far more important that you open my father’s eyes. I do not say he will give way to your wishes, nor that it will not create some touchiness about the living (hopefully temporary), but it might check his foolish impulses. Do come, Philip, and claim your own.

Ever since he read this at the breakfast table and shut himself in his library to escape his sister’s questions, Egerton had been thinking in notes of exclamation.

His uncle Cottrell and Felicity Hynde!

It was unthinkable. Why, the man must be fifty, if he was a day! And poor Martha, who had been mistress of Cottrell Hall for ten years—to fear being supplanted by an eighteen-year-old girl and supplied with a half-score of half-siblings, thirty years younger than herself! Indeed, how much of Martha’s concern was for him, Philip, and how much for herself?

Surely Miss Hynde would not want an old husband, he thought, no matter how resentful she might be of her circumstances or how indulgent Uncle Geoffrey might be. This is all more cry than wool.

But when he thought of stern, serious Martha Cottrell, he could not so easily dismiss her words. His cousin was given neither to exaggeration, nor to agitation. If she thought these things—thought them so strongly that she took up pen to write them out in black and white and to urge him to come—it must be bad.

It must be real.

And yet, if everything was falling apart—his marriage plans, his career plans—then what was he still doing here, sitting at Mr. Terry’s desk in the rectory? Why was he not dashing for the Witney coach, portmanteau banging against his leg? How could he possibly explain his inaction?

Pushing himself away from the desk he began to pace the room, brow furrowed and hair soon rumpled from dragging his hand through it.

But the conclusion he had been avoiding would not be dismissed.

I don’t want to marry Felicity Hynde any longer.

It was that simple.

That simple and that complicated.

He was relieved she was gone. He did not love her any longer. Nor did he want to learn to love her again, take her for all in all . He did not want to wait for her to grow wiser—if such a thing could be assumed. And he certainly did not want to offer for her now, when she did not even like him and he could not even say if he liked her!

How had this revolution in his feelings taken place? Yes, his idol’s feet of clay had been exposed by her unreasonable infatuation with the unworthy Beck—Felicity’s feet of clay and Philip’s own na?veté in thinking her an angel. He was embarrassed to remember it now. With her stubbornness, blindness, and temper, Felicity Hynde was no angel. But, perhaps even more discomfiting, Philip began to admit possibly no woman was.

That was not all.

Even compared to the rest of her faulty sistren—and here Mrs. Merritt appeared in his mind’s eye—Felicity was lacking. What prevented Felicity from becoming a Mrs. Merritt but opportunity? And how would Felicity have survived disgrace, poverty, imprisonment, loss? He could not help but think she would not have. That instead of being supported by inner steel and guided by her conscience to learn and to grow and to do right, she would have collapsed. Collapsed into shrill bitterness and blame, blame which encompassed everyone but herself.

No indeed, he would not take the Witney coach.

He would write a sympathetic but firm reply to Martha advising her that his uncle Geoffrey must take his chances. It would not be the first time an old man made a fool of himself for a younger woman, and if Felicity should accept him (this Philip considered with an incredulous shake of his head), well, half the world would call her prudent. She might even end in being happy. Geoffrey Cottrell was a respectable, well-situated man and a far better gamble than the likes of Alexander Beck.

Poor Martha. But Felicity would not be an unkind stepmother to her, especially if Martha did not cross her.

And if Philip did not cross his uncle, why, the living of St. Lawrence Church might still be on the cards one day, though he grinned to think of Felicity sitting between his uncle and his cousin in the front pew.

Such was the partial conclusion Philip Egerton arrived at by the end of an hour, and being a man of action, he scribbled a note at once to his cousin Martha and escaped to post it at the Tree Inn, all the while congratulating himself on his increase of wisdom and narrow escape. There is no guarantee Felicity will ever gain wisdom, but at least I have learned a lesson.

This complacency lasted throughout his conference with the sexton about repairs to the northwest window. That is, it lasted until his eye caught Mrs. Merritt and Miss Barstow entering the churchyard. Then and only then did the rest of the truth fall upon him, much as the biblical house fell upon the Philistines when vengeful Samson took hold of its pillars.

It was not that the sun sailed from behind the clouds to illuminate Mrs. Merritt in a striking manner. Nor did he hear the strains of an angel choir or any flourish of trumpets—that would be impossible with Closter saying in his loud, nasal voice, “We’ll have to have the craftsman from Oxford who worked on the windows of St. John’s, but in the meantime I’ll stuff a rag or summat in there.”

Who could say then what crushed Philip Egerton like the metaphorical load of masonry, except that perhaps when the blindfold of Felicity Hynde was finally ripped from his eyes, for the very first time he could truly see.

See what had been before him for who knew how long: Jane Merritt, the sum total of her, and—more alarming still—see the state of his own heart.

Oh, mercy.

No wonder Beck hounded her.

It was not simply that Mrs. Merritt was lovely, though she was certainly that. Lovely, from the wings of her dark hair to the tips of her toes. Lovely, from her clear hazel eyes which regarded the world with such apprehension to the tender mouth which Beck had not been able to resist.

It was more than that. It was that very vulnerability of hers, which called out his protective instincts. Yes, she had been weak and thoughtless in her earlier years, but flouting the world’s conventions had brought punishment, and this she had borne with patience, not attempting to excuse herself or to blame others. Unlike Miss Hynde.

But never mind Miss Hynde because then Mrs. Merritt and Miss Barstow were before him, and Egerton must remember how to string words together. Afterward he suspected he had failed, but he couldn’t be certain because his erratic heartbeat had given him the sensation of being enclosed in a drum during the entire conversation, fists thumping on the drumhead until he thought surely one of the young ladies would comment upon it.

When they had gone, Egerton released a heavy breath, propping one hand against the dank, cold stones of the church to keep himself upright. Like a householder discovering he had been swindled by his most trusted servant, Egerton could only demand helplessly, How long has this been going on ?

Had it been since he spoke to her in the back garden of Iffley Cottage?

No—longer than that. Else why would he have been provoked by Alexander Beck’s taunts into attacking the man? Suppose he had caught Beck kissing instead, say, Mrs. Sebastian Barstow, the brother’s widow. Philip would have been surprised, of course, and disapproving of the display—but would he have done more than muse at how still waters ran deep? He could not imagine the same wrath surging through him, as it had when he found Beck forcing his attentions on Mrs. Merritt for the second time.

Was it only the second attempt he resented? Was that when he had begun to…care for her?

His breathing shallow, Egerton continued to follow the thread, tracing it back and back, his color coming and going.

Because—yes, it must be confessed—he had wanted to thump Beck that first time, too, at the Greenwood Ball.

When the cold of the stones seeped through his gloves, Egerton swung open the church door and slipped inside. If anything, it was even colder within, but at least there would be no witnesses to his meditation. He stole into the vestry nevertheless, dropping onto a wooden bench and leaning his head back against the stoles, surplices and robes hanging there.

Heavens heavens heavens.

The world was turned upside down. For if he loved Mrs. Merritt, could he possibly…marry her? Take such a wife to himself? There might be other clergymen in the kingdom married to widows, but he doubted another could be found in all Christendom married to such a one as she —one who eloped with her first husband and shared his imprisonment in the Fleet!

Never in all his imaginings for his life had Philip foreseen such a possibility, and never never would he have imagined himself giving it any consideration. He, who had dreamed of a sweet innocent across the table at meals, sewing in a neighboring armchair in the evenings, and gazing attentively at him from the front pew! Well, Mrs. Merritt was attentive enough in church, he thought with a self-mocking grimace, and seemed to sew as skillfully as the next young lady.

The real question was, how could he possibly not marry her? How could he possibly, having never been in love before, do absolutely nothing with the tempest roiling inside him? And if he could not bring himself to marry her, he equally could not stand by and watch her marry another. Not that he feared for her and Beck, but there would be someone eventually. How could there not be? Whenever Beck was got rid of, there would never be another scandal attached to her name, and her original sin would continue to fade into ancient history. Then indeed someone would come, someone who snapped his fingers at her past and remarked only her beauty and intelligence, her kindness and family feeling.

I might marry her in five years.

He rejected this as soon as it occurred to him. While five years might suffice for Mrs. Merritt’s figurative spots to fade, there was the problem of the Inevitable Someone coming along and snatching her from under Philip’s waiting eye.

But more to the point, he did not think he could wait five years. Five springs, summers, autumns, and winters before he held her in his arms and made her his own? Impossible. He could not. He could—not—wait. When this realization burst upon him, Egerton actually groaned aloud and leaped to his feet to pace the small room.

It seemed he had already made his decision, then.

He loved her. He intended to have her. Would she have him?

Not that he could ask her yet, when he had nothing to offer but a temporary curacy. Moreover, asking her—engaging himself to her—might even prevent him securing something more permanent. It was something of a checkmate, a nonplus: win a wife—such a wife—and exclude himself from the means to support her, or risk losing her by waiting until he found employment.

I can hint in the meantime, however. I can befriend her. Try to win her. So that if the Inevitable Someone comes along, she will not be tempted by him. Or would she? How did Mrs. Merritt feel toward him? The only thing Egerton was willing to venture was that she was at least not attached to anyone else. Nor did she seem to dis like him, which was more than could be said for Beck.

“I will play my cards as well as I can,” he told the hanging vestments. “Who knows what may happen before the Terrys return? My uncle may be engaged to Felicity by then and in a good humor. Secure of St. Lawrence Church, then I might ask her. Or, if my uncle fails me, I will look about me for another position.”

“Did Mrs. Merritt find you?” he accosted his sister at dinner that day. “Have you discussed what the Cramthorpes and Harry Barbary might recite?”

She had been watching him surreptitiously, wanting to ask about Martha’s letter but uncertain how to proceed with the boys present. “We have, yes,” Cassie replied, “and we will tell them tomorrow.” Her gaze swept over the Tommies and Archie. “And all of you? Have you chosen some lines to recite?”

“Will my mama come?” demanded Archie. The little boy’s unprompted speeches were still rare enough that neither of the Egertons chided him for speaking first, before Tom Ellis could get his words out.

“I don’t know, Archie. But certainly your guardian Mr. Beck would be welcome to invite her.”

Cassie smiled at him for this neat evasion, but she sobered soon enough when Tom Ellis said, “And—Miss Hynde? Might she return to hear us?”

“I’m afraid not, Tom. She is…much occupied at Cottrell Hall.”

The young man’s shoulders sagged, and a pang of sympathy surprised his tutor. Yes, yes, love too easily ended in disappointment. And how wretched to be powerless over if or when one would see one’s beloved!

The mere thought made him impatient to see Mrs. Merritt again, just to assure himself of her existence and to suffer the unpredictable zigzags of his heart. That was all. Just to call upon her and look at her and hear her voice. Under the present circumstances, he would allow himself no more. But it would be better than nothing.

In supposing this would suffice, Egerton could be forgiven for failing to take into account his own nature. That is, having discovered his regard for Mrs. Merritt, and having never before been in the throes of a passion, he failed to understand that love had a mind of its own. Love, in fact, was not something to be placed on a shelf or under glass, to be taken down from time to time and inspected. Nor was he, a man in love, the sort to sit idly by, content to let it simmer untended, as a cook would a humble chowder.