Page 4 of Mrs. Merritt’s Remorse (Lord Dere’s Dependents #2)

Ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free.

—John 8:23, The Authorized Version (1611)

When Jane opened her eyes the following morning, something was changed. Not in the bedchamber, to be sure, for there were the familiar cracks in the ceiling plaster, and there was Sarah still asleep beside her, the door to Gordon and Bash’s adjoining closet still shut. No, the change was mysteriously in herself.

“I stood up to Mrs. Dere,” she whispered. “I met strangers and told my story, and—here I still am.”

Gingerly she put back the coverlet and slid from the bed, reaching hurriedly for her shawl. It was chilly, but it was not to warm herself that she gave a hop, before gliding across the floorboards in her bare feet and spinning in a circle. What was this feeling? This bubbling up in her soul which threatened to emerge as—as singing!

It couldn’t be—no, impossible.

Could it?

That is, could it possibly be…joy?

To think that joy was now so alien to her, so long forgotten that it bewildered her, that she could hardly recognize it when it took hold! But—yes. This was the feeling she faintly remembered, one which accompanied sunlight sparkling on water; bluebells carpeting the woods in spring; Sebastian and Sarah’s wedding day; dancing with her siblings in the Twyford parsonage with smiling parents looking on.

“I told my story, and here I am,” Jane whispered again. A few minutes later she was dressed, floating along the passage and down the stairs. She could hear the servants in the kitchen, and she almost laughed to see their surprise when she appeared.

“Mrs. Merritt!” they exclaimed in unison, Irving nearly dropping the coal bucket and Reed poised mid-chop with knife in hand.

“Good morning to you. What a beautiful day it promises to be, though I feel the chill of autumn coming. A morning fire will be welcome, Irving. May I help with that, Reed? I was thinking—Mama and Sarah were speaking the other day of the Cramthorpes, that young Mrs. Cramthorpe was unwell. Might we make up a basket, for Sarah and me to take to them?”

“Mrs. Sarah and you, miss?” echoed Reed with unflattering astonishment.

“Yes,” Jane returned, waiting to see if her courage would waver, but it held. “Yes. Sarah and I. Because Frances has never liked to go there, ever since she spilled the soup on that one occasion, and old Mrs. Cramthorpe called her ‘a great clumsy ox.’ Do you remember?”

“I remember,” Reed answered dryly. “All my good mutton broth, poured through the cracks in the floor.” Though it was not her place to question Mrs. Merritt’s inexplicable turnabout—Mrs. Merritt, who could so rarely be got to creep past the front gate!—she intended to discuss this development with Irving at length and to ply the servants over at Perryfield for an explanation.

When the rest of the family rose soon afterward and learned of Jane’s intention, they were equally amazed, though even Gordon had the good sense not to ask questions. He was more interested in the agreement reached with Mrs. Dere, in any event, and drummed a triumphant tattoo on the table with fork and knife when he learned Peter would continue at Keele’s. “So much for her! So much for her!” he chanted.

When he was duly reproved for this display and order restored, they turned again to look at Jane.

“I have sat idle long enough,” she explained with an apologetic face. “You have all been very patient with me, very forbearing, but after yesterday I see that my…hiding has done no one any good. I have been thinking too much of myself and only myself. You will see I mean to be useful now.”

“But are you certain about the Cramthorpes, to begin with?” Mrs. Barstow wondered. “You must not overdo matters.”

“I will come with you and Sarah,” Frances offered.

“But you don’t like old Mrs. Cramthorpe,” said Jane.

“I don’t,” her sister agreed, “but I will come all the same.”

While Jane attributed Frances’ willingness to curiosity, that did her an injustice. In truth, Frances intended to stand in the gap, lest frank old Mrs. Cramthorpe pop Jane’s new courage like a bubble.

Iffley being a modest-sized village, the parish was not overwhelmed with struggling poor, but a few families lived in tumbledown cottages below the watermill, and the three young ladies directed their steps thitherward after breakfast.

The Cramthorpes consisted of the old grandmother, her daughter-in-law, and a pair of young children, boy and girl, who were running about outside when the Barstows arrived, and who did not appear to have bathed or combed their hair in some time. Seeing the basket Jane carried, the children followed them eagerly within, where their grandmother slumped in the rocking chair like a caved-in hillside and younger Mrs. Cramthorpe lay asleep. The air being so warm and close inside, Sarah left the door ajar.

“You again, is it, Miss Elbows and Feet?” barked old Mrs. Cramthorpe, squinting at Frances.

“It’s Miss Barstow, yes,” answered Frances with a roll of her eyes. “And Mrs. Sarah and my sister Mrs. Merritt.”

“Who?”

“You remember me, don’t you, Mrs. Cramthorpe?” asked Sarah as she smoothed the bed coverings.

“Of course I remember you!” snapped the old woman. She jabbed a finger toward Jane. “I meant that one.”

“I am Mrs. Merritt,” said Jane as steadily as she could. “Miss Barstow’s next older sister.”

“The one who jilted his lordship?”

Jane swallowed. “Er—no. That was my oldest sister Adela. She is married and living in Oxford now.”

“Buns!” cried the boy, climbing on a stool to inspect the basket’s contents. “Buns and apples!” shrieked his sister. Their clamor provided a welcome diversion, but Jane was aware of old Mrs. Cramthorpe’s mouth working convulsively.

When Jane had poured soup into two of the Cramthorpes’ chipped bowls, she chose to serve the old woman, only to be rewarded with a triumphant, “I know who you are! You’re the eloper who went to prison. If you’d been a daughter of mine, I’d have horse-whipped you.”

“Mrs. Cramthorpe!” screeched Frances, elbowing the boy aside to fling herself between Jane and her attacker. “Do try a bun with your broth!”

Sadly, Frances’ valor conflicted with the suddenness of her movements. Her limbs tangling with Jane’s, Reed’s good broth was dashed once again to the floor, splashing the old lady’s ankles and streaming across the flagstones.

“Stupid girl!” roared old Mrs. Cramthorpe, almost sitting up straight in her indignation and then bouncing several times in the rocking chair, eyes goggling. “See what you’ve done! Again! ” This exercise soon exhausted her, thankfully, and she subsided once more into her customary crumple, but not without her fit penetrating her daughter-in-law’s fevered slumber. With a moan, the younger woman rolled over, one arm flopping across the bed and knocking away the bowl Sarah held.

Another wave of mutton broth. Another splash and shriek. More puddles.

So it was this scene—old Mrs. Cramthorpe growling curses, Sarah pressing at the bedclothes to absorb excess broth, and Jane and Frances on their hands and knees swabbing the floor—which met the eyes of the next visitors to push the door open.

“Who’s there?” demanded old Mrs. Cramthorpe, peering. “Jimmy, the door blew open. These blockheads didn’t shut it all the way.”

“It’s Mrs. Terry, Mrs. Cramthorpe,” the rector’s wife replied, tiptoeing from the doorway to a dry spot where the floor tilted upward. “I’ve come to say farewell for now and to introduce you to Mr. Terry’s new curate Mr. Egerton.”

Not large to begin with, the Cramthorpes’ hovel was positively packed with these additions, though Mr. Egerton lingered in the doorway, bending slightly to avoid cracking his crown on the lintel. Jane was mortified to be found on all fours, presenting her backside to the newcomers, but she had to rise slowly because slipping and going down in a slick of broth would overtop all.

“We’ve had a mutton-broth deluge,” said Frances cheerfully, as if she were frequently found in such circumstances. Tossing aside the rag she held, it landed on the hearth with a sodden splot .

“More harm than help, these ones,” grumbled Mrs. Cramthorpe. “I didn’t even get a taste before it was everywhere but where it should be.”

But Mrs. Terry briskly snatched up a somewhat clean rag and gave a few swipes of her own. “What a lovely thought, Barstows, Mrs. Merritt. You see, Mr. Egerton, what an active, benevolent parish you take on? You will not be alone in caring for your flock.”

“I do see that,” he said in his cool way, but his color was heightened. Reaching in his coat pocket, he withdrew a small notebook and pencil. “Have you been long resident in Iffley, Mrs. Cramthorpe?”

“What? What’s that?”

“There’s nothing wrong with your hearing, Mrs. Cramthorpe,” chided Mrs. Terry gently.

The old woman collapsed further under this reproof, and she screwed up her mouth in a pout. “Don’t see why you have to go away and leave us to strangers.”

“Now, Mrs. Cramthorpe, you know Mr. Terry is unwell himself, and if I do not do something about it, he will not be able to take care of his flock. So be a dear and welcome Mr. Egerton. He’s quite conscientious and methodical—”

“Medical? We don’t want any of that here!”

“Me-tho-di-cal,” enunciated the rector’s wife. “I refer to his habit of making notes. I have been taking Mr. Egerton around Iffley this morning to make introductions, and he has been scribbling the whole time, so that he might jog his memory later. You know how my own Mr. Terry will sometimes take to wool-gathering, and when he does, he often forgets little details.”

“Hmmph.”

“Why, you once called him a ‘chuckle-headed halfwit’ when he confused you with Mrs. Barbary and asked after your carbuncles.”

“I don’t have carbuncles!” bellowed the old lady.

“Precisely,” agreed Mrs. Terry. “So if you answer Mr. Egerton’s questions now and let him record such things, you will prevent such offensive mistakes being made in the future.”

While this interchange took place, the Barstow women had been cleaning up after themselves as well as they could, repacking the basket and seeing to the younger Mrs. Cramthorpe and the children, Jane taking advantage of Jimmy’s resumed bun consumption to give his smudged face a good wipe and to draw a comb through his hair. Then, to leave the curate and Mrs. Terry more room in which to maneuver, they quietly excused themselves.

Mr. Egerton turned toward the door frame and contracted himself against it to let Frances and Sarah pass, but as Jane followed the toe of her boot clipped an uneven flagstone, causing her to bump the table with her hip. A tin cup clanged to the floor, and when both she and the curate bent to retrieve it, their foreheads met smartly.

“Clumsy as a hog in armor!” squawked old Mrs. Cramthorpe, laughing so hard she nearly tipped out of the rocking chair. Whether it was this jeer or the parson’s hand person catching at her elbow, Jane reddened, and he released her the very next instant.

“I beg your pardon,” she mumbled, keeping her bonnet brim low to hide her face. If she had been able to look at him, she would have seen that he was scarcely more composed, and he muttered the same reply to the top of her head.

“What did I tell you?” gurgled Mrs. Cramthorpe. “But nothing a good horsewhipping wouldn’t fix!” And while this bizarre pronouncement might mean nothing to the newcomers, Jane could not escape fast enough.

No further mishap befell the new curate after the others’ departure. That is, no one else knocked heads with him or otherwise made him an outlet for Mrs. Cramthorpe’s surliness. He even entertained the children by making hand shadows on the wall while Mrs. Terry saw to the younger Mrs. Cramthorpe’s comfort.

“The doctor Mr. Travers had better come and look at her again,” said the rector’s wife when they emerged some minutes later.

“Look at whom?”

“At young Mrs. Cramthorpe, of course! She is no longer feverish, but she is still lethargic.” Mrs. Terry gave him a shrewd look. “Who else would I be referring to?”

“Er—you might have meant the older woman,” said Egerton, though as soon as he spoke, he stiffened in surprise. Why—had he just told a lie? Because, in truth, he had been thinking of Mrs. Merritt.

Mrs. Terry lifted a skeptical brow, but she said only, “Sadly, Mr. Travers cannot cure what ails old Mrs. Cramthorpe.”

They continued down Mill Lane, Mrs. Terry pointing out other cottages and describing the residents while he recorded the information in his notebook, but when they reached the end she paused, tapping her chin and regarding him. “Do you know, Mr. Egerton, you witnessed something of a miracle at the Cramthorpes’.”

“Because the old lady smiled upon us at the end?” he asked. “If it could be called a smile.”

“Oh, you may be certain it was,” Mrs. Terry returned, almost grinning, “because you will notice she did not accompany it with an insult. Indeed, though you might not believe me, that was old Mrs. Cramthorpe when she is charmed. But no, Mr. Egerton, that was not the miracle I referred to. I meant, rather, the miracle of Mrs. Merritt being back in the world—Mrs. Merritt at the end of her seclusion.”

These mentions of Mrs. Merritt’s “back” and “end” evoked a memory of the woman’s charming posterior as she scrubbed the Cramthorpes’ floor, a memory he banished at once, horrified at the direction of his thoughts.

Schooling himself, he managed to reply blandly, “Your husband would agree, for he said much the same yesterday to my sister. Though is something still a miracle if it happens for a second time in as many days?”

“It is not a second time,” Mrs. Terry said, “for I suppose she could not escape the Perryfield dinner, considering the Barstows’ obligations to Lord Dere. And you must have seen she did not find it entirely pleasant.”

“I could not say with any confidence that she found it pleasant at all.”

“Exactly.”

Who could blame her, with Mrs. Markham Dere picking at her family like that? Egerton thought. But after his conversation with Cassie, he knew better than to voice this. Another vision of Mrs. Merritt flashed across his mind: her leaping to her feet in challenge, hazel eyes sparking and hands clenched. Such fire! Cassie had called her “doleful,” but she had not looked doleful then.

After a pause he said, “Is Mrs. Merritt so seldom from home?”

“Very seldom.” They had gained the churchyard, but Mrs. Terry held up a hand to stay him before they entered. “One might even call it never. Knowing her history now you will understand her reserve.”

He gave a slight shudder. “Without a doubt. I must confess, it surprises me that Mrs. Dere is not even more outspoken in her disapproval, considering.”

“Well, it has been two years,” Mrs. Terry said dryly. “Make no mistake—Mrs. Merritt’s story was all the talk for a time. This is why I say you have witnessed a miracle. And perhaps Mrs. Dere’s provocation had the accidental consequence of goading Mrs. Merritt out of retirement.” Shaking her head and chuckling, the rector’s wife resumed walking. “And poor dear thing! How does she spend her first day of self-proclaimed liberty? In visiting old Mrs. Cramthorpe and suffering the rough side of her tongue! (Not that Mrs. C’s tongue has a smooth side, mind you.) Ah, Mr. Egerton,” she sighed, “do take care of our little flock while we are away. We are quite, quite fond of them all.”

“I will do my best.”

“Yes, I am sure you will, being a conscientious young man. Or you will try. But do you remember in Sterne’s Sentimental Journey, when Maria says, ‘God tempers the wind to the shorn lamb’?”

“I’m afraid I haven’t read it.”

“You will nevertheless understand the notion, I hope. My Mr. Terry declares he doesn’t know a single person who shears their lambs, and I tell him that is not the point. Lest you prove equally obtuse, Mr. Egerton, I will be plain. You are much younger than Mr. Terry and I, sir, and sometimes youth and inexperience might…neglect to temper the wind to the hypothetical shorn lamb. That is, sometimes youth and inexperience are wont to think, Such circumstances would never befall me, a wiser person . This belief is, however, a false one. And the only cure for such a mistake is, unfortunately, increased age and experience.”

But seeing that his expression, though it contained much of polite attention, was devoid of conviction, the good woman gave it up. He still believes flawlessness possible, she thought. At least as it applies to himself. If her husband were beside her, he would say, “Time must do its work, Mrs. Terry, and you must stop seeking short cuts for it.”

Shaking hands mentally with her spouse, Mrs. Terry patted the young curate on the arm. “Well, never mind me. Only say you will make a note of it, good sir, in your book?”