Page 7 of Mrs. Merritt’s Remorse (Lord Dere’s Dependents #2)

She made her public Re-entry upon this Stage of human Levities.

—John Kidgell, The Card (1755)

Considering her shock and injuries, no one in Iffley would have been surprised by Mrs. Merritt forgoing church that Sunday, but Jane contrarily wanted all the more to go. Not only to hear Mr. Egerton read himself in, but also to say farewell to the Terrys and perhaps catch a glimpse of little Archie Wilson. Moreover, the gig incident had had the unexpected consequence of exposing her to nearly everyone in Iffley at once.

“I daresay I spoke with them all yesterday, and they all saw my bandage and bruises,” she mused, frowning at her discolored face in the glass. “Though today, in addition to black and blue, I begin to see some green.”

“Just wear my gauze veil over your bonnet, and you may hide in plain sight,” Sarah answered, sliding open a drawer at the bottom of the wardrobe.

“Let us hope no other members of the Egerton family will attend,” said Jane. “They would be the only strangers present.”

There were not dozens of Egertons to be faced, in the event—only an older gentleman and two younger ladies who filed into the pew behind Mrs. Terry and Miss Egerton (thus obligating Dr. Lane and family to move back one pew, which forced the Bellews to move back one pew, and so on). As the Barstows always sat in the first two righthand pews with the Deres, Jane found herself directly across from the strangers, and she blessed Sarah’s veil for the anonymity it provided. Though the filmy gauze blurred her surroundings, it must do the same for her own features .

The veil stirred as Mr. Egerton swept up the aisle, austere and handsome in his robe and snowy surplice, but once he reached the pulpit she must be satisfied with listening, rather than looking. But listening was indeed a pleasure.

Mr. Egerton read himself in with no hitches. He had a warm, even delivery, as clear as Mr. Terry’s if not more so, considering the rector’s recent illness and coughing fits. When the curate finished with the Thirty-Nine Articles and his Declaration of Assent, he gave way to Mr. Terry, and Jane’s attention strayed. Beneath the cobweb of silk draped over her bonnet, she need not turn her head to let her eyes roam, and she turned them on the strangers.

Conveniently, they must swivel in her direction to see the pulpit, but the nearest young lady went further, draping her forearm across the edge of the pew and resting her chin upon it. She was a pretty creature, clothed in blue wool and yellow kid gloves, with hair the color of new-minted guineas, a rosy mouth, straight nose, and long lashes casting shadows on her rounded cheeks.

The beauty gave a silent sigh and leaned out a tick, craning her neck to peer around the pew before her. A moment onward, she sat up a little straighter, her lips curling into a smile. Her gloved fingertips gave the merest flutter. Fascinated, Jane’s eyes traced the direction of her gaze and was not surprised to see it fixed on Mr. Egerton, seated upon the chancel. And that he saw the wave Jane did not doubt, for he himself shifted on his bench and turned his head once more toward Mr. Terry. His exact expression Jane could not determine through her veil, but the change in posture was enough to tell her the greeting had not been without effect.

Who was she? A sister? A cousin?

A sweetheart?

She had not long to wonder, for when the service ended, the congregation spilled into the churchyard to take leave of the Terrys and to be introduced to the strangers. Such was the hubbub that Jane was free to observe, silent and ignored.

“My uncle Geoffrey Cottrell, my cousin Miss Cottrell, and my uncle’s ward Miss Hynde,” Mr. Egerton announced, indicating each. Father and daughter Mr. and Miss Cottrell were as alike as two peas, if one pea were male and some thirty years older. Both were tall and angular; both had unruly brown hair (Mr. Cottrell’s silvered with grey) and stern features; both regarded Philip Egerton with complacent approval. The new curate then drew chuckles when he attempted to make known all his new acquaintances in turn, the rector or Mrs. Terry prompting him if he forgot a name. The Iffley Cottage family he managed without difficulty, but was it Jane’s imagination, or was she the only one he neglected to look at directly?

It is the veil. He knows I wear it because I do not wish to be singled out.

At least, Jane hoped that was the case. Because the alternative was that he did not care enough to look her way. Or, worse, he was not eager for her to know his family.

“If I might have everyone’s attention,” announced the rector’s wife with a clap of her hands, “though I have said my good-byes to each of you over the course of the week, Mr. Terry and I hope you might linger a few minutes for tea and biscuits on the rectory lawn. The Tommies have even organized some games for the children. How fortunate the weather is so fine.”

In a short space, Jane found the protective hedge of her family neatly stripped away. The children ran off at once (followed by Sarah in pursuit of Bash); Mrs. Barstow was carried off by Mrs. Terry to advise her on the laying out of the food; and even the reliable Frances was appropriated by Mrs. Markham Dere to second her in some musical opinions.

Jane stood alone.

Consciously she edged closer to one of the tables the maids set out and affected to smooth the cloth covering it, but then she must back away for the trays of French biscuits and Shrewsbury cakes to be laid. Nor did she want to hover there, as if eager to snatch up all the refreshments.

She was about to attach herself to Lord Dere’s side as he spoke with some of the Oxford set, when a gentle “Good morning to you, Mrs. Merritt,” sounded at her elbow.

Whirling, Jane discovered Miss Egerton beside her. Though the two had not exchanged more than twenty sentences in their brief acquaintance, the sight of the young lady’s pleasant, candid face buoyed her. “Good morning, Miss Egerton. I congratulate your brother on his reading in. You must be proud of him.”

“Thank you. I suppose I am proud of Philip, but in truth I am more pleased with myself,” she laughed. “You see, Philip gaining this curacy is no great surprise—he has had every step of his career planned since he was twelve years old. Whereas to find myself here in Iffley, nearly independent and in charge of a household, all without first being required to marry—that is the true wonder! It may only be for a few months, but I intend to make the most of them.”

Miss Egerton’s frankness diverted her, so that Jane smiled behind her veil. “I do congratulate you, then. Do you think you will like having the care of three young pupils in the house, in addition to your brother?”

“With four younger siblings, minding younger children is nothing new to me, Mrs. Merritt,” she answered, “and the Tommies seem tractable enough. We will see about this Archie Wilson, of course, when we finally meet him tomorrow. But short of him being a second Harry Barbary, I am inclined to think I will be very, very happy in Iffley and that the months will fly by.”

“I am glad of it,” Jane said. “And you never know. Although the Terrys will return in the spring, perhaps your brother will find another curacy afterward, and you may keep house for him there as well.”

“True. Though I believe the likelier next rung on my brother’s ladder will be a living of his own. St. Lawrence Church, in particular, as promised to him by my uncle Mr. Cottrell there. And when Philip gets that, then—poof!” She snapped her fingers. “Like Cinderella’s coach and footmen on the stroke of midnight, the spell of my freedom will be broken, and I will return to my parents’ house.”

“But why?” asked Jane. “Might you not continue with Mr. Egerton, even when he gets St. Lawrence Church?”

Miss Egerton shook her head with a rueful smile. “I’m afraid not. For the instant Philip secures sufficient income, he will marry Miss Hynde.”

“Miss Hynde!” Jane’s gaze flew across the churchyard to where that young lady stood beside Mr. and Miss Cottrell—and Mr. Egerton.

“Oh, mercy—I shouldn’t have said that!” cried Miss Egerton, her fingers flying to her lips. “I blame your quietness and reserve, Mrs. Merritt—they lull one into making confessions. No—that is my second error, for it is not fair to lay my indiscretion at your door. But truly I should not have said that, and I beg you not to repeat it.”

“I—will say nothing of it,” promised Jane.

“Philip would kill me! Why, she doesn’t even know of his intentions because my brother says ‘there’s many a slip,’ and so forth. But one only has to know Philip a short time before one realizes he always gets what he wants, sooner or later.”

Jane felt a cloud of lowness descend upon her, though why she should be surprised or disappointed by the news she could not explain. Only see how dear and sweet and pretty young Miss Hynde was! Of course Mr. Egerton would notice her. Fall in love with her. Set down in his little notebook: “Item: one wife, the purest and loveliest to be had.” Nor did Jane believe for a moment that Miss Hynde knew nothing of his intentions—not with the little wordless greeting she had given him in church. No. There might generally be many a slip ’twixt cup and lip, but this cup and this lip appeared a safe bet.

Nevertheless she rallied enough to say more firmly, “Not a word of it will pass my lips, Miss Egerton. I—do know, after all, how unpleasant it is to have private matters made public.”

This reference to her own woes reassured Miss Egerton immensely, and she gave Jane a sympathetic smile. “Thank you.”

With another effort Jane succeeded in sounding almost playful. “In any event, Miss Egerton—one day you might still have your own household, if you yourself were to marry.”

“It’s kind of you to say so, Mrs. Merritt. I don’t know why it is, however, that there always seem to be a great many more young ladies who would like to be married than there are gentlemen to marry them.”

Amen to that, Jane added inwardly. Especially if one sets aside the unsuitable gentlemen whom young ladies would do better not to marry.

Although such thoughts usually led straight to Roger Merritt, on this occasion they followed a different path. How lovely it would be, to be an unsullied innocent again, as Miss Hynde was! To have all the world before one, but to be safeguarded from errors such as Jane had fallen into by the love of a good man.

These meditations caused pangs of a different sort, and Jane fell silent as they watched the children darting among the headstones in the churchyard . Miss Egerton proved an easy companion, however, sharing a few amusing anecdotes about some of them which Mrs. Terry had told her.

“I like the Tommies already,” she said. “Young boys are always lively, and I suspect they will test us when the Terrys have gone, but they get along with each other, and I think they can be managed. The only question will be how the mysterious Archie Wilson will fit in. Though he can’t be that bad, can he? Or we would have heard about it already from Mrs. Lamb. She has had him at the Tree Inn for two days now, after all.”

“Mr. Beck did say they would be in Oxford for much of that time,” Jane reminded her.

“Of course, but she has let us down nonetheless. She was so prompt to report your accident far and wide, but of Archie Wilson not a whisper!”

“Perhaps because I am a scandalous creature,” suggested Jane with the shadow of a smile.

“And a bastard boy is not?” Miss Egerton countered, the humorous lift of her eyebrows taking the sting from her words. “And considering how handsome Archie Wilson’s ‘guardian’ is, Mrs. Lamb has been inexplicably close-lipped about him as well. No, no, all her talk has been of you nearly being killed and of the iniquities of Harry Barbary.”

“Miss Egerton,” Jane said, “I have been thinking about Harry Barbary.”

“Thinking of revenge?”

“Not at all,” Jane laughed. “Thinking of what might be done for him. I know there is no parish school, but do you suppose he might be taught to read?”

“Gracious! Do you mean to foist him on my brother as well?” marveled Miss Egerton.

“Oh, no!” cried Jane. “Please do not suspect me of it. He has already agreed to Archie Wilson, and I would not dream of asking him to add Harry Barbary to his schoolroom. I only meant that—what if I were to try teaching him? Sarah and Frances and I already give lessons to Maria and Bash, so I have a little practice with a primer.”

“Why, Mrs. Merritt, what a splendid idea!” Miss Egerton agreed, her face lighting with eagerness. “What if we were to do it together? We might gather Harry Barbary and little Jimmy and Anna Cramthorpe and teach the three of them. There is a perfect room in the older part of the rectory which nobody has used in an age—we would be in nobody’s way there…”

The two young ladies, almost vibrating in their enthusiasm, had taken hold of each other’s hands by this point.

“We must get Philip’s permission, of course, and the Cramthorpes’ and the Barbarys’,” Miss Egerton continued, “but I cannot imagine anyone would oppose the plan.”

“Do you think we might start with an hour or two, twice a week?” asked Jane.

“That would be good, and then we might increase it or decrease it, as we judge best. Let me talk it over with my brother. I doubt we will begin this week because I will not want to bother Philip until everything has settled—”

“Absolutely. That is very sensible—”

“Let me call on you in a few days, when he and I have talked—”

“Yes! Oh, yes. That would be delightful. Whenever it is convenient for you.”

To have her proposal meet with such overwhelming approval filled Jane with a pleasure she had not experienced for quite some time, a pleasure augmented by the thought that she had made a friend. After her unhappy marriage and long isolation, it was like the sun sailing out from behind thick clouds to bathe her in warmth.

Her elation lasted a full thirty seconds before they were interrupted by the unexpected sight of Miss Hynde scurrying over to them. Dropping a hasty curtsey to Jane, the girl shook her own happy gloved fists and snatched at Miss Egerton’s hands just as Jane released them.

“Miss Egerton! Oh, Miss Egerton! You will never guess, so I must tell you. I have asked Mr. Cottrell and Mr. Egerton if I might come for a visit! Martha said it would be making a nuisance of myself because you and Mr. Egerton were seeking to get established, but Mr. Egerton said it would be no nuisance at all, if you did not think it would be. So tell me, Miss Egerton, would it? Would it be all right with you? Please? Please please please may I come?”

Philip Egerton’s exact words had been, “You would likely find it dull, Miss Hynde. I fear there is little in the way of amusement in Iffley, and I will be much occupied with my parish and teaching duties and Cassie with keeping house.”

But Miss Hynde turned pleading blue eyes upon him, urging in a melting voice, “Oh, Mr. Egerton, I promise I would be no trouble at all, and you cannot think what diversion any sort of travel provides a person like me. I, who since the loss of my father have hardly stirred from Cottrell Hall! Everything I have seen of Iffley thus far convinces me of its delights.”

As this “everything,” to his knowledge, comprised only the Tree Inn and the church, Egerton could not prevent a skeptical smile, but it was his older cousin Martha Cottrell who said in a quelling tone, “What nonsense, Felicity. You’ve no more manners than a kitten, inviting yourself where you’ve not been asked and where, I daresay, you would only be in the way. Philip and Cassandra have work to be done and no time for frivolities.”

Miss Hynde’s face fell, and later Egerton would tell himself it must have been Martha’s harshness which overcame his reluctance. Five minutes in Martha Cottrell’s company would have even a saint begging for a holiday—how much more one as sweet and playful as Miss Hynde? Therefore he heard himself say, “I suppose, Miss Hynde, if my uncle and Cassie could be persuaded, I would have no further objections…”

The matter was soon settled, Geoffrey Cottrell making the calculation that his daughter’s complaints would be easier to ignore (through long practice) than his ward’s pouting, and Miss Egerton giving way because she thought her brother wished her to. In her case there was a sigh of vexation to be smothered, for wasn’t that just like a man? To invite his potential sweetheart to stay, even though the greater share of entertaining her would fall upon Cassie? Philip might be in love with Miss Hynde, but Philip had work to do, leaving Miss Hynde forever on Cassie’s hands.

In this Miss Egerton did her brother an injustice, for when Miss Hynde first made her request, unexpected reluctance made him answer as he did. He ought to have leapt at her suggestion—would it not be a delicious foretaste of future delights, when the two of them would begin married life?

And yet—

And yet he thought he would prefer to establish himself in his new role without such distractions. Miss Hynde’s presence would be setting the cart before the horse. It would be premature. After all, he could not be expected to court her when it was not yet time for courtship, but nor could he ignore her, lest she resent his inattention and take a dislike to him. He would have to tread carefully, feeling his way, as if he had not already so much to occupy him!

This, at least, was what Philip Egerton told himself, and he believed it. It did not occur to him that his new parishioner Mrs. Merritt had anything to do with his reluctance. Because Mrs. Merritt had nothing to do with anything, really. He had, of course, looked at her more than once from the pulpit, but she was now a member of his flock, and he had looked at each of them, he was fairly certain. Or perhaps his eyes had been drawn by the veil she wore. What earthly reason was there for it, here, where everyone knew her and had spoken with her only the day before? It only made her conspicuous, and should she not be thinking of things beyond herself in church?