Page 5 of Mrs. Merritt’s Remorse (Lord Dere’s Dependents #2)

Troylus is the better man of the two…

Oh Jupiter ther's no comparison.

—Shakespeare, Troilus and Cressida, I.ii.60 (1609)

Though Sarah and Frances feared such a first essay at re-entering the larger world would drive Jane back into hiding, they were delighted to be mistaken. It was true sudden blushes stained her cheeks as she sat with the family, and true as well that she did not seem inclined to talk much, but when a call at Perryfield was proposed the following day, Jane did not demur, and the day after, when Frances announced she would walk to the Tree Inn, Jane agreed to accompany her.

Secretly, her family rejoiced.

“Of course she must blush, Mama,” Frances whispered to Mrs. Barstow when they chanced to find themselves alone. “If you had been there and seen us crashing about! And cross old Mrs. Cramthorpe at her most offensive—I only wish the broth had spilled on her, instead of the floor or the bed. And then for the new curate to find us all mucking and scouring like scullery maids! All that would have been bad enough, but then he and Jane had to strike their heads together as she left.” Laughter convulsed her, and even Mrs. Barstow could not prevent a smile, but they soon hushed each other.

“It might have been for the best, Mama. In comparison to such a beginning, any future embarrassments will be mere nothings.”

If her family could have seen into her mind—and thank heaven they could not—they might have been troubled anew, however. At least, Jane was. For it was not embarrassment alone which occupied her, nor embarrassment alone which caused her frequent changes in color. As the days passed she found she dwelt less and less on her bungling, and more and more on Mr. Egerton himself. Mr. Egerton as a person. As…a man. And if she had once compared him to her father’s lackluster curate, she did so no longer.

No, now, Jane compared Mr. Egerton—to another.

She compared him to Roger.

And if a search had been made throughout the kingdom, it would have been difficult to find two men more unlike.

The Roger Merritt who danced into her life in Twyford had been liveliness itself, bursting with high spirits, always teasing, jesting, flirting. Though he had neither settled prospects nor professional ambitions, his optimism made light of these lacks and persuaded her to make light of them as well. In the dark period wherein the Barstows mourned the loss of father and brother, Roger Merritt streaked across Jane’s sky like a comet, and she threw all aside to catch after him.

But a comet trails fire, and fire burns.

When they eloped it was three long days before they reached Scotland and could be married, three long, long days in which Jane’s conscience overtook her. “What has become of my daring girl?” her betrothed demanded, impatient with her falling spirits. “I’ll take no weakling milksop for a bride.” Hardly the words to comfort her.

Nor did matters improve after they were wed, when Jane thought she might hold her head up again. For one thing, she discovered that a Roger Merritt experienced in small doses bore little resemblance to one on whom she must depend round the clock, and he, making this same discovery and resenting it, took to disappearing for hours at a time while she sat alone in strange, dirty inn rooms.

All might still have turned out right, had Roger’s rich aunt, whose heir he was, approved the match.

But she did not.

Infuriated by his rashness, she struck him from her will and cut off his allowance, and only then did Jane understand in full her late father’s misgivings. For if a Roger Merritt with expectations was playful and idle, a penniless one proved an entirely different species.

There turned out to be no core to him, in the end . Nothing to support the structure of his character when the foundation of his aunt’s money was removed.

What had followed—well, Jane had dwelt on those memories so very long now that even skirting the painful ground caused her chest to tighten, and she would rub it absently with her fist.

So much for the late Roger Merritt.

Therefore, considering all she had gone through, was it any surprise she could now meet a Philip Egerton and be fascinated? Was it any surprise that, having known Roger Merritt’s flaws too well, Mr. Egerton should then carry the day?

Surprising or not, this was the result. This was the cause of her blushes.

Though she had only met Mr. Egerton the two times, the contrast was already plain. Where Roger had been restless as the wind, Mr. Egerton held his vigor in check, like a racehorse waiting for the starter’s shout. Where Roger joked and frolicked, Mr. Egerton was serious, almost grave. Indeed, time had not yet revealed whether the man had any humor at all! Where Roger left things to chance, trusting his luck to hold (even when it didn’t), Mr. Egerton appeared to do nothing on impulse. And where Roger’s emotions found immediate expression, whether for good or evil, Mr. Egerton kept his passions in check.

If he has any passions , Jane thought. The reflection drew a rueful smile. Because she did not doubt that her heedless, younger self would have dismissed the new curate as a starched fellow. Possibly even a prig. Yes, the butterfly who had been Jane Barstow would have lumped Mr. Egerton with the forgettable Mr. Liddell and been hard put to distinguish one from the other. But the wiser and wounded Jane Merritt —alas—had no difficulty with it at all.

She foresaw no danger in her meditations; indeed, she told herself it was beneficial to have her faith in good men restored. Moreover, her musings changed nothing because she would never marry again. After the anguish she had inflicted on her family, yielding to further self-indulgence struck her as unforgiveable. And it would certainly be self-indulgent to dream of Mr. Egerton having anything to do with her. He and she may not have begun life as chalk and cheese, but experience had undoubtedly made them so.

It was with this resolution that Jane re-entered the world, submitting quietly to the call at Perryfield (where Mrs. Dere plumed herself on having prevailed in the Archie Wilson controversy) and accompanying Frances to the Tree Inn.

The first sight to greet the sisters was the unsettling one of an urchin hanging upside-down from a branch of the inn’s great elm, grimacing and making rude noises. Jane jumped, but Frances threw herself in front of her older sister and held up a threatening finger.

“You come down from there at once, Harry Barbary, or I will fetch Mrs. Lamb.”

The boy’s lips and tongue produced another unmannerly sound in answer to this address, but he swung himself up out of Frances’ reach nonetheless.

“What do you mean, idling in this naughty fashion?” Frances accused. “Does Mrs. Lamb have no work for you today?”

“What’s that? What’s that? Who wants me?” came the voice of the postmistress from the entrance to the inn. Before Harry Barbary could scramble higher, his employer hastened over with broom in hand and immediately set about with it, whacking and thwacking any part of the errand boy she could reach until he squealed and dropped down from the tree, crying, “I ain’t done nothing!”

“That’s right, you haven’t,” rejoined Mrs. Lamb with another swat to his hindquarters, “and us expecting a London gentleman! Where are the things I sent you out for?”

“Here! They’re here!” howled the boy, scrambling around the trunk of the elm to fetch several parcels and slinging them at her feet.

“And where’s my change, you rascal?”

He dug the coins from his pocket and deposited them in like manner before sprinting for the inn door to escape his mistress’ attentions.

“Goodness,” said Frances, her lips twitching.

Mrs. Lamb rolled her eyes. “Goodness has nothing to do with that boy! I hired him as a favor to Mrs. Terry because the Barbarys are in great straits, but I’ll be blessed if I don’t dismiss the creature the instant the Terrys are on their way. It’s not my imagination the boy has light fingers, or where have some of my vittles gone? Not to mention the guests complaining of little things missing.”

“I suppose the Barbarys are very poor,” murmured Jane, “with Mr. Barbary having abandoned them.”

Belatedly, the postmistress made note of what would ordinarily have commanded her attention, and her hold on her broom slackened. “Why, Mrs. Merritt! What brings you out on this fine day?”

“A walk,” answered Jane, her chin lifting. She was pleased to hear the steadiness of her voice and ignored Frances’ pressure on her arm. “Are you indeed expecting a London gentleman, Mrs. Lamb?”

“A real live one!” she declared. “And at any moment, as I expect the express coach from town has already arrived in Oxford.”

“But who can this person be?” asked Frances. “We saw Mrs. Markham Dere only yesterday, and she made no mention of anyone important coming to Iffley.”

She could not have said anything more calculated to delight Mrs. Lamb, for the woman prided herself on knowing more about Iffley’s goings-on than any other residents. With a swelling of her bosom she said airily, “I expect she knows nothing of it, for I only learned of him myself when I received word to reserve a room and ‘the largest available’! It’s a Mr. Alexander Beck, Miss Barstow. Some rich town swell coming to deliver his… charge. ” She whispered this last word with a sly lift of her eyebrows, as if it were something scandalous, but when her auditors only appeared perplexed, she added impatiently, “The new boy, of course. The one going to the rectory for Mr. Egerton to teach!”

“Archie Wilson?” breathed the sisters in unison, staring at each other. Had Mrs. Dere known Archie Wilson was somehow connected to a rich gentleman from London when she disdained him?

“That’s the name,” Mrs. Lamb nodded. “This Archie Wilson is the ward of a Mr. Alexander Beck, but time will tell if ‘ward’ means what you and I think it might mean.” The postmistress here tapped the side of her nose and gave a knowing look.

“Well,” said Jane, now applying pressure of her own to Frances’ arm, “Mrs. Terry did mention this new pupil. You are indeed quite busy, Mrs. Lamb, if you expect such guests. Therefore Frances and I will be on our way and leave you to it.”

Frances waited until they climbed over the stile into Iffley Meadows before saying, “Now why did you have to go and drag me away? We might have learned so many more interesting things about this Mr. Beck or about Archie Wilson.”

“I dragged you away because I know too well what it is like to be talked about,” replied Jane, “so the least I can do is avoid encouraging the woman.”

Shrugging, Frances returned to the enthralling discovery. “Imagine if Archie Wilson’s father should turn out to be rich!”

“Indeed,” said Jane dryly. “I suspect being the natural son of a rich, important person is an irregularity more easily overlooked than being the natural son of nobody-knows-who.”

“Mr. Alexander Beck,” repeated Frances. “What a noble name. Well—if he kept his relation to Archie Wilson quiet before, he has let the cat out of the bag now. Telling Mrs. Lamb is as good as printing up a notice and handbills!”

“So it is,” Jane agreed, plucking a stalk of saxifrage and twirling it between her fingertips. “In fact, if Mr. Beck does not turn out to be Archie Wilson’s father, he will have a hard time convincing anyone of it now.” She tossed the stem away with a muted sigh. “For instance, I suppose it will be all over Iffley by nightfall that I am disposed to be sociable again, for better or worse.”

“How can it be for worse?” asked Frances sensibly. “Seeing you walking about Iffley poses no danger to anyone.”

The sisters’ ramble took along the marshy banks of the Thames, where they picked blades of grass and made efforts to whistle through them.

“I, for one, am heartily glad you are showing your face again,” Frances told her when they tired of this and plumped down to watch the soothing flow of the river. “After Della married, it’s been a great bore to go about mostly by myself. You know Mama is always busy with housekeeping and Sarah with Bash, and Maria is too young, and Gordy is at school, even if he weren’t a boy. And if I go over to Perryfield to practice on the pianoforte, Mrs. Dere is sure to join me at some point and treat me like her unpaid companion for an hour or two.”

Grinning, Jane prodded Frances’ leg with her boot toe. “Poor, poor Frances. Let me make up for lost time, then. What would you like to do that requires my public appearance? Visit the haberdasher? Bring soup daily to the Cramthorpes? Your wish is my command.”

“We might walk all the way into Oxford together on occasion when the weather is dry,” Frances suggested eagerly, sitting up to tuck her knees beneath her. “It’s not above five miles there and back, and then we might visit the shops and the circulating library and even drop into Keele’s to see Della. Mama would never let me go so far alone because of all the young men, you know. She says Della can only do it because she is a married woman.”

“Very well,” laughed Jane. “Oxford on occasion. Good heavens, who knew the pleasures I was depriving you of, all unawares? But come—will the Iffley haberdasher’s be enough for today? We can see if Mr. Byrne has any pink calicoes. Perhaps two years ago scarlet would have been more appropriate for me, but I believe now my scandal has faded to pink. What do you say?”

“I say there isn’t money for either but looking costs us nothing.”

Though Byrne’s was a modest establishment, its proprietor stuffed it as full as he could with cottons and woolens, velvets and silks, laces, ribbons, tapes, threads, gloves, and so forth, to the point that even the bow window was partially obstructed with wares.

Having not been inside a shop for so long, Jane gladly lingered with her sister, imagining which items they would choose and for what purpose, if money were no object, but at last Frances settled on a remnant of poppy-colored velvet with which to fashion a new caul to her bonnet.

“I will wait for you in the street while Mr. Byrne wraps it,” murmured Jane, when another pair of ladies entered the confined premises. With a nod to them, she edged past and out.

And then several things happened in rapid succession.

The door of the neighboring grocer flew open, and Harry Barbary hurtled out, one hand to his cap as he looked back over his shoulder and the other clutched in a fist, while the grocer bellowed, “Stop that boy!”

Before Jane knew what she was about, she had thrown her arms wide to intercept him, though she could no more have stopped a runaway mail coach than Harry Barbary full tilt. He ran straight into her, his granite head striking her shoulder a powerful blow an instant before the rest of his person, so that she was spun into the street, straight into the path of an oncoming gig!

“Miss!” he bleated, the handful of currants he had filched raining to the pavement, but Jane was dizzily trying to regain her footing.

There was a shouted oath—the clatter of hooves and wheels on paving stone—whinnying—a scream she bemusedly recognized as Frances—and then the wind being knocked from her as something unseen struck her.

The next thing she knew, she was lying on hard pavement, bonnet askew, head whirling. Someone was scrambling…off of her? More racket, more voices. Angry questions. Frightened questions. Somebody whining, “I didn’t do nothing!”

“Jane!”

She opened her eyes, and there was Frances’ alarmed face hovering over her.

“Jane—oh, thank God! Are you hurt? What’s that? Oh! You must be hurt because you’re—bleeding!”

Frances’ face was joined by the profile of Mr. Egerton— Mr. Egerton?

“You there, Harry Barbary,” said Mr. Egerton’s profile. “Go and fetch Mr. Travers. Yes, the doctor—and quickly.” His profile flashed into full face. “Are you all right, Mrs. Merritt?”

“Of course she’s not all right!” Frances keened. “She can’t talk, and she’s bleeding!”

“I can talk,” said Jane thickly, her voice sounding very far away, even to herself. “And do stop shrieking, Frances.”

“Jane!” her sister screamed in relief. She pressed her cheek to Jane’s as she burst into tears, but blessedly this impulse was curtailed by the curate.

“Come, come, Miss Barstow,” he soothed, “do not crush your sister further.”

Frances obeyed, but then it was Jane’s turn to gasp when she saw the vivid blood staining her younger sister. Her gloved fingers rising to touch her own temple, she discovered its source.

“I want to sit up,” said Jane.

He held up a hand. “Mrs. Merritt, you might want to wait for Mr. Travers.”

“No, I don’t think that will be necessary.” Tentatively she took stock: her head throbbed, yes, and she felt sore in several places, as if she had tumbled headfirst down the Perryfield staircase, but her bones were intact and her joints in working order.

“No,” she repeated. “I believe I am not seriously injured.”

“Then take this, please,” he answered, fishing out his handkerchief. “Cuts to the head tend to bleed profusely.”

She pressed the cloth to her forehead, giving Mr. Egerton her other hand, that he might assist her to stand. “But I don’t understand how I cut my head,” she murmured, “unless Harry Barbary is secretly a unicorn.”

Had she been less dazed she would have marveled to see the twitch of his lips, but his reply was grave enough. “I’m afraid I am to blame, Mrs. Merritt. I threw you to the ground with some violence in my hurry, and you must have cut it on the pavement. But there was no time for gentleness, or else the gig would have made short work of you. It was being driven at rather a reckless speed for our little village streets.”

“Who was that, anyway?” demanded Frances. “I blame the driver and that wretched Harry Barbary. I saw it all through the window, and it’s true, Jane, you would have been crushed flat as a pancake if Mr. Egerton hadn’t happened to be near.”

A little crowd was gathering by this point, Frances and Mr. Egerton now joined by Mr. Byrne, the two other customers of the haberdashery, and the grocer, while Mr. Travers approached from one direction with his medical bag and Mrs. Lamb from the other, dragging Harry Barbary by the ear.

“Mrs. Merritt,” cried the postmistress over the top of everyone, “The ostler tells me a lady was nearly struck in the road, and then I find Harry hiding under the bar!”

“I didn’t do nothing!” wailed Harry.

“You stole some currants from me, you rascal,” protested the grocer.

An argument erupted, upon which Mr. Travers said quietly to Jane, “Shall we step into Iffley Cottage, Mrs. Merritt? This is a very public place for an examination. Leave Mr. Egerton here to make the necessary explanations.”

She did not need convincing, and tucking her arm under his, she allowed the doctor to lead her and Frances gingerly homeward.