Page 6 of Mrs. Merritt’s Remorse (Lord Dere’s Dependents #2)

What doth she swound? make meanes for Her recoverie?

—Shakespeare, Henry VI, Part 3, V.v.44 (1595)

“You!” the two men exclaimed in unison.

The maid Polly paused in her retreat from the rectory parlor, glancing from the visitor to Mr. Egerton and back. The curate was reddening, though with what emotion Polly could not be certain, but he was such a contained young man that any strong feeling from him piqued her curiosity.

“You,” repeated Mr. Egerton. Then, remembering himself, he gave a hasty bow. “That is, Mr. Beck. Er—may I present my sister Miss Egerton? And I am Philip Egerton, the new curate here at St. Mary’s.”

“Curate and…rescuer of the imperiled, if I am not mistaken,” returned the visitor, making his own bow.

Cassandra Egerton thought this Mr. Beck might be the handsomest young man to whom she had ever been introduced, with his lustrous black hair and impossibly blue eyes. The simplicity and fine materials of his clothing must have cost a pretty penny, moreover, she judged with her experienced seamstress’ eye, and then there was the large, gleaming emerald ring he wore. Good-looking young men generally ignored her, so she was caught off guard when this particular one smiled at her. “Did your brother tell you, Miss Egerton, of his derring-do this afternoon?”

Cassie glanced at Philip, only to be as surprised as Polly had been by his high color. “He did say there was a…mishap with a gig driver and—one of our parishioners.”

“No, really!—Is she indeed one of your parishioners?” Beck said, one corner of his lips curling in a delighted grin.

“In embryo,” admitted Egerton with reluctance. “The rector Mr. Terry goes Monday after I am read in.”

“Today, Monday…It’s all one.” Beck waved away this hair-splitting. “Then you must be doubly glad you were on the spot, Mr. Egerton. It happened so quickly, Miss Egerton! One moment we were trit-trotting down a peaceful lane, and the next, a figure spins across our path! Your brother then shot like a cannonball into the road and bowled away both the young lady and himself.”

“Did you truly, Philip?” gasped Cassie, not having heard the incident described so dramatically.

“I hope the young lady was not hurt,” said Mr. Beck.

“Not seriously, I don’t believe.”

“If she is—or will soon be—a parishioner of yours, Mr. Egerton, I expect you know her name and where she may be found,” the man persisted. “I would dearly like to call and offer my heartfelt apologies for causing her distress, at any rate.”

“That is kind of you, sir,” Cassie said, when her brother did not seem in a hurry to reply. “Her name is Mrs. Merritt, and she lives with her family at Iffley Cottage, not five minutes from here. Poor Mrs. Merritt—what a time she has had of it, these last few days! I will certainly call on her tomorrow.” She thought Philip would second this suggestion at least—perhaps even insist on accompanying her—but instead his lips tightened.

Mr. Beck was all bland affability. “Will you, Miss Egerton? Perhaps I might plan to arrive shortly after you, then? I would not like to appear at this Iffley Cottage without someone to vouch for me.”

She was spared a response by the return of the Terrys at this juncture, leaving the introductions to begin all over again. This was followed by another rehearsal of Mrs. Merritt’s near accident, after which the conversation turned at last to what had brought Mr. Beck to Iffley in the first place: the details of Archie Wilson’s placement. Such matters once resolved, the dashing guardian made his bows and was shown out again by the maid.

“My goodness what a handsome man!” marveled Mrs. Terry. “Does the room seem warm to you?” She fanned herself jokingly with her hand.

“He is indeed well-favored,” Cassie could not help but agree. “And though he may nearly have run down Mrs. Merritt, if he calls at Iffley Cottage, at least now all the Barstow ladies may have a chance to see and admire him.”

“Mr. Egerton, did he say before we entered whether Archie Wilson were indeed his natural son?”

“He did not mention it.”

“Mrs. Terry,” chided her husband.

“It’s no use saying ‘Mrs. Terry’ to me. Now that I have seen the man, the real wonder is that he has not a dozen natural sons to provide for! I don’t suppose Mrs. Dere would have objected so vehemently had she known what he looked like. Well! It’s a good thing he will leave the boy and go away again, for imagine if such a specimen were to take up residence in Iffley! The gossip and the heart flutterings…I daresay even I might have fallen victim to his charms and left you to go to Italy alone, my dear Mr. Terry.”

Though not a word they had spoken passed beyond the rectory walls, the village was not long left in the dark regarding Mr. Beck. Mrs. Lamb ensured that, by the following morning, all Iffley knew both of the man’s arrival and Mrs. Merritt’s near escape. Many families who ordinarily sent servants to the Tree Inn to fetch their post came in person, hoping for a glimpse of the visitor, only to be disappointed that Beck had not yet been seen and had ordered his breakfast sent up.

As a consolation, those with any claim to acquaintance then called at Iffley Cottage, which was how the Egertons required full five minutes to reach the front door from the gate, as they must be stopped and greeted and questioned and conversed with by parishioners just leaving.

By the time Reed announced their arrival, however, only one caller remained with the Barstows, the scholar Dr. Lane, and even he was going. “Again, I am glad to learn you escaped serious harm, Mrs. Merritt,” he concluded, his wisp of a beard waving like an overlarge fringe of eyelashes, “and hope to see you on your feet again shortly.”

“Thank you, Dr. Lane,” she murmured. She had not risen when the Egertons entered and was seated with her back to the window, but Egerton could see she was neatly bandaged, her only other visible injury being a slight swelling and discoloration of the cheekbone beneath her cut. Even this bluish tinge might have been imagined, for her color rose, and before Egerton could wonder at the cause, Mrs. Barstow hurried forward, reaching to take his hand between her own.

“Mr. Egerton, how can I thank you enough for saving my child? Frances told me how quick you were to think and act, pushing her out of harm’s way.”

“Madam, I am glad I was there,” he answered gravely.

“As are we!” cried Miss Barstow. “For it’s one thing to be on the spot, and quite another to keep one’s head. I was no use at all, I regret to say, screaming and panicking like that.”

“It was an alarming situation,” he replied soothingly. “Had I had more time to think, I probably would have screamed and panicked myself.”

Miss Barstow was not the only one to smile at this unlikely picture, and her mother said, “Please, won’t you and Miss Egerton sit a while?”

“You’ve had so many callers,” Cassie demurred. “We would not want to weary Mrs. Merritt.”

A twinge shot through Egerton, and he was startled to realize it was annoyance at Cassie. If Mrs. Merritt had already borne the inquisitive visits of half of Iffley, surely she could bear fifteen minutes of them. After all—leaving aside his rescue of her —was he not the family priest, or nearly so? Though he thought he betrayed no outward sign, Cassie guessed his displeasure all the same because she added sotto voce : “Beck.”

Ah. That was right. If the Egertons tarried any length of time, they risked the threatened appearance of Alexander Beck at their heels. Still, what was the danger of five minutes, or ten?

“We had so many callers that we banished Gordy and Maria, and Sarah took Bash away, all so we would have enough chairs,” Miss Barstow was saying. “But that doesn’t mean you aren’t welcome.”

“Yes, please do stay,” Mrs. Merritt added in turn, coloring in earnest as soon as she spoke. “I am not so feeble that sitting and listening to others converse will dispatch me.”

“It’s true,” her younger sister seconded, adding artlessly, “Jane only minds if everyone stares at her and talks only of her. But it happens that, if you had been present to hear our other callers this morning, Mr. Egerton, you would have heard much of yourself.”

“As a matter of fact, Philip was congratulated a dozen times for his valor between your cottage gate and the front door,” laughed Miss Egerton, shaking her head at him when he frowned.

“And no wonder! Because the tale grows in the telling,” rejoined Miss Barstow, “as does every tale to which Mrs. Lamb contributes, I’m afraid. You are now a full-fledged hero in Iffley, Mr. Egerton.”

“My, my,” he answered lightly. “Not bad, for a moment’s work.”

“And I fear Harry Barbary has been painted as the villain,” said Mrs. Merritt. Egerton was glad for an excuse to look her way again and to see she was smiling. But when Miss Barstow spoke again, he must turn away once more.

“Harry Barbary is the villain, Jane,” said Miss Barstow. “If he had not been stealing from the grocer Mr. Linn, Mr. Linn would not have shouted for you to stop him. It is not like you go around every day trying to catch Harry Barbary. And if you had not tried to stop the boy, he would not have run into you and knocked you into the street.”

But Mrs. Merritt turned her soft gaze on the curate. “We hear that Mrs. Lamb has dismissed him.”

Egerton thought this reasonable enough—Mrs. Lamb could hardly employ petty thieves who might steal from her guests—but the faint pleading in her voice spurred him to say, “I am aware of the Barbarys’ struggles and will call upon them, to see what may be done.” As proof of his earnest, he withdrew his little notebook and jotted a sentence in it, receiving the reward of a heartfelt, “Thank you!”

But this was to be his only recompense, for here the parlor door opened and the maid cried, “Mr. Alexander Beck!”

The Egertons glanced at each other in sympathetic vexation. Whether by chance or some sixth sense, the man had managed to time his call perfectly to take advantage of their presence!

As for the Barstows, they were scarcely more easy. A day earlier, they would have been amazed to receive a call from a person so wholly unacquainted with them. They knew of the man’s expected arrival in Iffley to deliver Archie Wilson, of course, but that could have nothing to do with them. This morning’s callers, however, had not left them long in ignorance, falling over each other to announce Mr. Beck’s part in Jane’s accident, so that his appearance now was not a complete surprise.

“Beck alone again?” Egerton muttered to his sister. “I begin to doubt Archie Wilson’s existence.” Though he imagined Mrs. Lamb would be glad to supervise the boy, if only to pump him for useful information. All the better, I suppose. For whatever the woman learns, she will share with anyone who will listen.

In swept the mysterious Mr. Beck, as smartly dressed and handsome as the day before, and the eyes of the Barstow women widened collectively. On this occasion, however, his countenance was deferential, even solemn. After straightening from his bow, he unerringly sought out Mrs. Barstow to say, “Forgive me for my unbidden call, madam, but my sense of right overpowered the ordinary courtesies.”

“Sir,” said Mrs. Barstow in her soft voice. (Her daughters guessed correctly that she was wishing Adela were present, for Della always took charge in unpredictable situations.)

Taking a deep breath, Cassandra Egerton did what could not then be avoided, though she felt a stir of resentment. “Mrs. Barstow, if you will allow me to present Mr. Alexander Beck,” Cassie began. “Philip and I and the Terrys made his acquaintance yesterday. He is the guardian of little Archie Wilson, of whose advent you have heard. Mr. Beck, may I introduce Mrs. Barstow and two of her daughters, Mrs. Merritt and Miss Barstow.”

“Mrs. Barstow,” he addressed the matron once more, his gaze not straying beyond the edges of acknowledgement of her daughters, “I come to apologize. I expect you know the role I played, all unintentionally, as the gig driver in yesterday’s incident with Mrs. Merritt.”

“I do, sir,” she replied. “And having heard from all witnesses that no fault whatsoever lay with you, I assure you no apology is necessary.”

“Still, it eases my heart to make it,” he insisted.

Again he was assured of pardon and asked to be seated, and only then did he allow his eyes to roam daughter-ward. Miss Barstow he examined the precise amount of time allowed by propriety, but Mrs. Merritt’s interesting condition warranted a more lingering inspection, one which took in the court-plaster covering her right temple and the surrounding bruising. Given her injuries, her dark hair was merely tied back with a ribbon and then wound in a loose chignon low on her nape—unfashionable, to be sure, but it hinted at her being caught in déshabillé, and Beck scrutinized her long enough to make her shrink back.

“Mrs. Merritt,” he began, having claimed the open chair beside her, “while I am glad to have your mother’s pardon, I would wish to ask yours as well. Believe me when I say I would not have chosen yesterday’s circumstances as a way of meeting any person.”

Apart from an indeterminate sound in her throat, she made no reply, but she bent her head in acknowledgement, hoping it would suffice and praying Frances would not repeat her comment about Jane not liking attention.

“Does your head pain you very much?” he asked, and Jane fidgeted, disliking the intimacy implied by how quietly he spoke.

To counter this she answered with unusual loudness, “Just a dull ache—hardly worth mentioning. I beg you to think no more about it, sir. I do not hold you in any way responsible, and I would not like it to cloud your—ward’s—arrival in Iffley. I hope we will meet him soon.”

Her change of subject was too decided for Mr. Beck to ignore, so he graciously left off his murmuring to say, “Yes. I would be delighted to introduce you all to him, but today he is with the inn maid, sorting his belongings before I take him into Oxford. It has been some time since I passed through here, and there are plenty of acquaintances and sights to see again.”

“Will…Archie go to the rectory soon?” Jane asked.

Mr. Beck clicked his tongue regretfully. “Much too soon, I am now inclined to think.”

“We agreed he would be transferred on Monday,” spoke up Egerton to the room at large, “after I am read in and the Terrys have gone.”

While everyone would have liked to ask more about Archie Wilson, Mr. Beck’s possible paternity seemed to place an embargo on further questions, though Frances ventured, “And then you will return to town, sir?”

“It…had been my intention.”

Egerton threw him a sharp look.

“And still is, for the immediate future,” resumed Beck. He dismissed this vagueness with an equally vague wave of his fingers. “It has been so very long since I was in the country to do anything beyond a little shooting. How is the shooting hereabouts?”

The Egertons being so new they could not answer, even if Philip had been a hunting parson, and what the Barstows knew of shooting could be measured in a teaspoon.

“I’m afraid we don’t know,” Mrs. Barstow said. “Perhaps, if he were here, Lord Dere of Perryfield—my cousin—might be more helpful, though I do not believe he shoots much anymore.”

“All the better, Mrs. Barstow,” replied Beck. “For then he likely has more birds than he knows what to do with.” His gaze swept the company before landing once more on Jane. “What would you say the chief amusements of Iffley are, then? Assemblies? Card parties? Musical evenings?”

Jane blushed, remembering how she had spent her only years in Iffley doing absolutely nothing which would interest a world-wise man like Mr. Beck, and Frances must have thought the same because she leapt in to say, “Not many assemblies—in fact, none. But there have been a few of the other things.”

“We are very quiet here, I suppose,” Jane now gathered herself to add. “But I know my sister and her husband in Oxford attend some lectures.”

Mr. Beck made a playful face of horror, at which even Jane smiled.

“Lectures? Good heavens. That will never do. Are all the beauty and high spirits of Iffley’s young people to molder away in obscurity? What a waste.” But before he could say more, steps and voices were heard in the passage, and the remaining Barstows spilled in, the children boisterous and smelling of sunshine and fresh air. Another round of introductions followed, after which the visitors consulted the mantel clock and reluctantly took their leave, adjuring Jane not to rise.

“If we do not see you in church tomorrow, we wish you a pleasant journey back to town,” Mrs. Barstow told Beck politely as he bowed to her.

“Thank you, madam. I’m afraid you will not see Archie or me tomorrow—prior engagements in Oxford. But I am grateful once again, for your good wishes and your kindness about the events of yesterday.”

To Jane’s amazement, both her mother and Frances actually colored and fluttered a little as Beck made his farewells. Steeling herself for she knew not what, she was both relieved and piqued when he left without another look at her. Goodness! Not that it mattered. She would never see him again, most likely.

Turning back, she found the Egertons beside her, Mr. Egerton’s clear, clear gaze slicing through her as if she were a transparent jelly.

Miss Egerton said, “Tomorrow and Monday will be very busy, but I will come again, if I may.”

“Yes, please,” replied Jane, flustered. “But I am not so infirm as all that.” To the curate she ought to say something , she knew—if only he did not look at her as if he knew Mr. Beck’s unsettling effect! “I—I thank you again, Mr. Egerton, for your—assistance.”

To this he merely inclined his head, but there was nothing cold in the movement, and she was encouraged to add shyly, “And won’t you please let me know if you learn anything of Harry Barbary, sir, when you have the opportunity?”

“Gladly.”

Another nod, and then he was gone.