Page 3 of Mrs. Merritt’s Remorse (Lord Dere’s Dependents #2)
He that toucheth pitch, shal be defiled therewith.
—Ecclesiasticus 13:1, The Authorized Version (1611)
Had she been closeted alone with Mrs. Dere while the woman said such things, Jane would think later, she would not have spoken a word in reply. She would have bowed her head and received the reproaches as her due, unpleasant though the experience would be. So to leap to her feet—to defy the formidable woman—she must have been mad. It must have been her mother’s stricken face which compelled her. Or the urgent commission they had received from Della the day before. Or the unjust criticism Mrs. Dere leveled at the Weatherills. Or the thought of Gordy losing the daily company of his friend and schoolmate Peter.
It must have been any and all of these things which compelled her.
But—
But.
But if she were honest, Jane admitted she might have borne even those particular slings and arrows in silence.
Heavens—she might even have done nothing if Mrs. Dere said such things in the hearing of only her family and the baron, or the kind and familiar Terrys.
Therefore, let the truth be told, if only in the privacy of her conscience.
The fact was, fearing what the newcomer Egertons might already know of her, Jane could not bear this public pillorying. It was one thing for Mrs. Dere to throw Jane’s past in her own face, but quite another for her to do so before strangers.
Therefore: “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. ”
Smothered gasps.
Tableau: The Disgraced before Her Accusers.
With Jane so suddenly on her feet, the gentlemen had no choice but to rise to their own, as soon as they overcame their surprise. But even as they did so, she felt her mother and Sarah reaching for her hands to—what?—comfort her? pull her back to her seat? Before they could do either, she had crossed her arms over her midsection, more to halt the tremble she felt coming on than to bid further defiance to their hostess.
Mrs. Dere’s astonished blue eyes were hard and round as marbles, and she gave a high laugh. “Mrs. Merritt! What on earth? Do be seated. Gracious, what a…display.”
Indeed—what a display!
After two long years of saying nothing, doing nothing, in her own defense, lying as low as she possibly could, she now did this?
Against a rising tide of doubt and embarrassment, Jane stammered, “I—beg your pardon, madam. But—but—I must ask you not to cast aspersions upon my family. Aspersions which belong, in truth, only to me.” She managed this much before sending one swift, encompassing glance around the drawing room, a glance which could not fail to take in the Terrys’ dismay and the Egertons’ obvious puzzlement.
Wait—their… puzzlement ?
Yes, puzzlement. Mixed with astonishment. Miss Egerton’s brow was creased, her head cocked. And as for Mr. Egerton— gracious. The new curate stared at her as if she were a lapdog who had broken into the Hallelujah Chorus.
In this eyeblink, a dozen thoughts crowded her mind.
If the Egertons were so uncomprehending, it could only mean they had not, in fact, known to what Mrs. Dere referred. Which meant in turn that Mrs. Dere had not spoken of it to them, and nor had the Terrys. Even Mrs. Lamb at the Tree Inn was exonerated, for pity’s sake.
Oh, mercy.
And now she herself had been the one to make a fuss! If she had only kept her mouth shut, the discomfiting moment would have passed, leaving the Egertons to seek an explanation from the Terrys later, in some private setting. But now Jane had left herself no alternative but to explain her bizarre conduct.
These conclusions were the work of a moment before she felt the hot blood drain from her. Her arms fell to her sides, allowing Mrs. Barstow and Sarah to catch at her and draw her down between them, while, awkwardly, the gentlemen resumed their seats as well. Mrs. Terry straightened, in preparation to join the fray, but Jane knew their well-meaning rector’s wife often made matters worse with her impulsive tongue. She must rally, then, and quickly. If her story must now be made known to the newcomers, let it be her, for once, to tell it.
“I must beg everyone’s pardon for my outburst,” she began in an unsteady voice, addressing a scroll in the paper on the wall opposite. “It was inexcusable.” As was so much she had done, Jane added inwardly.
“You see,” she went on, “Mrs. Dere only spoke the truth when she referred to ‘regrettable circumstances.’ It—it would not be going too far, even, to call it ‘disgrace.’ That is—I mean—suffice to say, Mr. Egerton, Miss Egerton, if you did not know already—and I suspect now that you did not—the story is simply this: a few years ago, I made a bad marriage, and it exacted a heavy price. I married my husband—without my father’s approval—indeed, without his knowledge, even, for my father died just before the—marriage—took place. Which proved to be a mercy because—because the match brought—it brought—undeserved scandal and—and—and shame upon my family. You see…the long and short of it is, my husband Mr. Merritt was— soon arrested for debt. He—was imprisoned. In the Fleet. Where he sadly—died—two years ago.”
A little gasp escaped Miss Egerton, but it was not the cluck of condemnation for which Jane had braced herself, and for that she was grateful. As for Mr. Egerton, he said precisely nothing, his eyes drilling into her until Jane thought he must soon see out the other side. Mrs. Dere alone moved, her upright posture relaxing a fraction and chin lifting, as if to say, You see ? You thought me unreasonable, but am I not justified in objecting to such a family?
For Jane’s part, she hoped not another word would be required of her for the remainder of the evening. Let Mrs. Terry say whatever she liked now, and Mrs. Dere, for that matter. With any luck, the company would henceforth ignore her, and when she returned home she might crawl under the coverlet, never to emerge again.
It was Mr. Egerton who finally broke the silence.
“Mrs. Dere,” he said evenly, removing his gaze from Jane at last, “if we might return to our earlier subject, I may have a solution to the problem of little Archie Wilson. I ought perhaps to consult Mr. Terry as well, because—what if the boy were to come to me? To the rectory, that is, to be taught. Then your Peter and, indeed, Keele’s entire school would be spared the child’s…murky antecedents.”
Jane’s head shot up. His disquieting eyes flicked to her, sliced her neatly in half, and then returned to Mrs. Dere.
What did it mean? Did he change the subject to rescue her from the distressful situation, or was he simply wishing to pass over the difficult moment? While nothing in his look betrayed sympathy for her, he must know his proposal risked antagonizing the foremost lady in the district.
“Oh, what a splendid suggestion!” struck in Mrs. Terry. She patted her husband’s knee. “Do you not agree, Mr. Terry? Yes. A splendid, charitable suggestion, Mr. Egerton.”
“I did not think pointing out the obvious facts was un charitable,” Mrs. Dere sniffed. “I daresay other parents would object to Archie Wilson, if his situation became widely known. Moreover, those who know me would agree I have shown myself tolerant of…aberrations in the past, including Mrs. Merritt’s circumstances, with which she has so baldly regaled us.”
“I should more accurately have called it a ‘peacemaking’ suggestion, then,” Mrs. Terry amended hastily. “For it would indeed keep the peace to accept this Archie at the rectory. Only consider—our two Tommies, being older, would be in far less danger of having their characters warped by the child’s bastardy.” Nothing in Mrs. Terry’s countenance or tone hinted at amusement as she said this, but Mrs. Dere had known the rector’s wife long enough to suspect it might nevertheless be lurking. Before she could make up her mind to speak, however, Mrs. Terry was waving a light hand. “Yes. You rest easy, Mrs. Dere. Your Peter may continue where he is.”
“The Weatherills might already be counting on Archie’s fees, however,” volunteered the baron. It was not the wisest move on his part, for his niece turned on him at once to vent her feelings.
“That may be, uncle,” Mrs. Dere rejoined. “But if they were to take Archie’s fees, they would perforce be giving up Peter’s, if not that of other pupils. Besides, I hope they have not been so foolish as to spend money they did not yet have! That way lies ruin. Indeed, the Weatherills must learn to steward their finances, sir. It has been two years since you gave them the means to start that school with Mr. Keele, and they don’t appear in any danger of driving Nixon’s or Magdalen School out of business.”
Here Frances spoke up. Of all the Barstows, she was the favorite with Mrs. Markham Dere, having been bidden by Adela to win the woman two years earlier. With that goal in mind, Frances had learned to bite her tongue at the proper times and to pay Mrs. Dere the compliments of attention and flattery at others. And what began as stratagem soon became second nature, for Frances found it more comfortable to be liked than disliked, and she managed to bear Mrs. Dere’s worst nonsense by the simple method of ignoring it.
“Madam,” she began now, “Della and her husband would certainly profit by your counsel, and I will take care to pass it along the next time I see them. It is one thing for the Terrys and Mr. Egerton to accept this boy as a pupil, but the Weatherills have twenty boys at Keele’s, and that is indeed another matter altogether! I hope they were guilty of nothing worse than thoughtlessness. Thank heaven you and the baron are always looking out for us.”
As Frances hoped, this sop mollified their hostess, whilst also giving the Barstows a minute to swallow any lingering indignation. And perhaps to the relief of all, Wood then entered to announce dinner. The matter was allowed to drop, and it was not until much later, when the company was listening to Frances at the pianoforte afterward, that Mrs. Dere was heard saying to the rector sotto voce , “Really, Mr. Terry, before you let your curate take this step, should you not ask the Tommies’ families’ permission?”
This renewed interference was balanced by another, more kindly inquiry, however, as Mrs. Barstow reported when they were being driven home again: “At our end of the dinner table, Lord Dere told me as quietly as he could that, if Della and Gerard were indeed counting upon little Archie Wilson’s fees, I had only to inform him, and he would make good the same.”
“Hurrah!” cried Frances. “Three cheers for Lord Dere! Let the Terrys and Mr. Egerton deal with Mrs. Dere, then. So long as the baron does not abandon us, we can weather her storms. And you see, Jane? The worst is over. I never imagined you would meet the enemy in the teeth as you did, but I commend you for it. The next thing you know, you will be attending balls and giving speeches in Parliament.”
Jane shook her head. “I must have been mad.”
“Well, your madness had method in it,” Frances replied. “The Egertons now know the worst, and there’s freedom in that. Moreover, Miss Egerton gave no sign of wanting to flee the room, screaming.”
“I liked her,” said Sarah. “She sat beside me in the drawing room and seemed like a kind, reasonable young lady.”
“But what about—Mr. Egerton sat next to you at dinner, did he not, Sarah? Did—he seem horrified?” Jane hoped she sounded nonchalant.
“It would hardly have been courteous of him to mention it,” observed her sister-in-law, “but he did not seem unduly aloof. We spoke mostly of how he and Miss Egerton thought they would like Iffley and the rectory.”
“I was too afraid to look at him—or indeed anyone as I made my confession,” admitted Jane. “I could only tell you how the drawing room wall took the disclosure, which was amazingly well.”
Frances laughed, stretching her legs to rest her feet on the seat opposite. “Then I am sorry to tell you that Mr. Egerton did not take it quite as well as the drawing room wall. He pressed his lips together, thus—” (she demonstrated in the moonlight from the window) “—and his eyebrow rose, thus, and then he crossed one knee over the other and made his offer to take Archie Wilson.”
Which told Jane nothing at all.
Not that Mr. Egerton’s opinion should matter more than anyone else’s, she counseled herself. But she met so few new people that it was natural for each one to bear exaggerated significance, was it not?
What was not natural was that, even when she lay in bed and Sarah had bid her good-night and extinguished the candle, Jane continued to ponder and ponder…Did Mr. Egerton now think of her with disapproval, or did he not think of her at all?
The rectory of the Church of St. Mary the Virgin consisted of an ancient Norman structure enlarged by more recent Tudor accretions. The Terrys and their boarders lived in and principally used the Tudor rooms, as would the Egertons [-when the Terrys departed, but in the interim Mr. Egerton and his sister were given two drafty chambers connected by a narrow sitting room in the Norman portion, and it was to this sitting room, as near to the fire as the chairs could be dragged, that the siblings repaired at the end of the day.
“I confess myself amazed, Philip,” said Cassandra, “that you would so rashly involve yourself in neighborhood affairs before you even understood the state of things or each person’s position.”
He did not pretend to misunderstand her, though he frowned at the glowing embers toward which his booted feet extended.
“You refer to the Archie Wilson controversy.”
“Of course.”
“You think I ought not to have interfered?”
“Mrs. Terry tells us the Deres are the first family in the parish, and though five minutes’ acquaintance with them was enough to show that even the baron goes on bended knee to Mrs. Markham Dere, you immediately went and crossed her, Philip!”
His brow knitting, he watched her working for a minute (his sister’s hands were never idle). “I provided a solution,” he answered after a pause. “I helped her. Now she need not remove her son from Keele’s.”
“To be sure. You were cruel to be kind,” Cassie returned. “You will please understand that when I reproach you, I am wearing my Ambition hat,” she explained, “which is usually so snug about your own brow that there is no snatching it off. That’s the real marvel, Philip: that you would risk angering the most powerful woman in the parish. It was uncharacteristic of you. You ordinarily always know on which side your bread is buttered.”
Her brother shifted in his chair, returning his gaze to the dwindling fire. Something pricked at him. An awareness that Cassie had put her finger on something he was not yet prepared to examine, much less explain. But he only said, “I wonder if any other curate in the kingdom is accused of being such a Machiavelli as you paint me, doing nothing but as a result of calculation.”
“Oh, Philip!” she cried, raising her head from her sewing to regard him fondly. “I should not have uttered a word, then, if you really did act from disinterested motives. Because, if you were not my brother, and if it would not have further annoyed Mrs. Dere, I would have leapt to my feet and shouted, Hurrah !”
“Heavens, what enthusiasm! Then why reproach me at all?”
“You see,” she went on, “all the time Mrs. Dere was complaining and stirring the coals, I had been watching Mrs. Merritt. Really, I could hardly keep my eyes from her because she is so very lovely and yet seemed so…doleful—”
“Hmm. And now we know why,” her brother rejoined. “If I had Mrs. Merritt’s tale of horror and woe, I would be doleful in company as well, if I even ventured into it.”
“Now there you are unkind, Philip! Mr. Terry caught me watching her, and he told me that Mrs. Merritt never is in company, if she can possibly help it. She rarely, rarely goes beyond the bounds of Iffley Cottage where the Barstows live, except to go to church. Though of course she must go to Perryfield when she is bid because the Barstows owe everything to Lord Dere. And here I thought you might have shared my pity for her and offered to take Archie Wilson as an act of chivalry.”
“Chivalry!”
“Yes—poor Mrs. Merritt being so upset, I thought you might have wanted to relieve her embarrassment. I certainly did.”
Egerton straightened in his armchair and began to tug off one of his boots. “My dear Cassie, your compassion is misplaced. It sounds like Mrs. Merritt made a foolish match which ended badly, as foolish matches are wont to do. And if she were never made to feel the consequences of her errors, she might be in danger of repeating them.”
To his surprise, his sister straightened in her own chair and scowled at him. “I don’t know about that, Philip. While I would agree she made a foolish match, I daresay a hundred equally foolish matches are made every day, with not one in one hundred ending as wretchedly as hers did. For that reason I don’t think my compassion a bit misplaced.” With a shake of her head, she resumed her sewing. “Why did you offer to take the boy, then, if it was neither to assert your independence from Mrs. Dere nor to draw attention away from Mrs. Merritt?”
“Why, I thought it an act of Christian charity,” declared Egerton, startled. “Archie Wilson might bear the stigma of illegitimacy, but one cannot choose one’s birth, nor should he be blamed for the sins of his father. The best society will ever be closed to him, but with a good education he can make the best of a bad bargain.”
“Well, I like that!” Cassie exclaimed. “Archie Wilson is to be excused for his father’s misdoings, but Mrs. Merritt must share in her husband’s?”
“Of course she must. That is precisely what marriage entails, my dear firebrand. Which is why young ladies must choose as wisely as they are able, with the approval of their family. As she herself confessed, her father objected to Mr. Merritt, so it is not as if the man gave no early signs of unsteady character, signs which she refused to acknowledge. I hope you and my other sisters would never do the same.”
“Since no one—respectable or otherwise—has ever shown interest in offering for any of us, you may rest easy on that point, brother,” she retorted.
Several minutes of silence followed this remark, and Egerton thought she would leave the matter there. But when he rose, yawning, to excuse himself, his sister had yet one more word.
“Yes, good night, Philip. I will only observe in parting that, as the Lord ‘sendeth rain on the just and on the unjust,’ I pray that when you are priest to both the ‘innocent’ Archie Wilson and the ‘guilty’ Mrs. Merritt, you will show them more equal charity. I certainly intend to.”