Prologue

In the agitation of their thoughts, and much discours of things hear aboute, at length they began to incline to this conclusion, of remoovall to some other place.

—Wm Bradford, History of Plymouth Plantation (c.1620)

If Mrs. Markham Dere had any regrets in her uniformly pleasant life, it was that she had no one to tell her how well she had done for herself. For with nothing but lavish beauty, grace, plentiful fortune, an enterprising mother, and impeccable connections, she had succeeded in capturing the heart of Mr. Markham Dere, heir to the Dere barony. And while this fortunate union lasted only until Mr. Dere's premature death seven years later from a suppuration formed in consequence of pneumonia, it was quite long enough to be blessed with a son and for Mrs. Markham Dere to have become thoroughly familiar with her husband's foibles. Flaws which, once he was departed, she could bury in forgetfulness and sentiment.

And to all these marks of providential favor was added yet one more: Mrs. Markham Dere became mistress of Perryfield without being required to await the current baron's decease.

"It is too bad the rector has three or four boys already boarding with him and cannot take on another," she sighed to this current baron, one Lord Ranulph Dere, on one of her regular calls at the great house. "And too bad moreover that it would not be appropriate for a tutor to live with Peter and me at the cottage."

After a hesitation the baron replied in his soft voice, "I suppose the tutor might lodge here at Perryfield and teach Peter in the old schoolroom."

"Do you think?" she brightened, looking much like the handsome Miss Ingles she had once been. "That is so good of you to offer, Uncle! And it would be so convenient for Peter. The walk from Iffley to Perryfield and back five times per week will not be so very bad for a small boy like him, except on those inclement days when I daresay I could hire the cart from the inn to bring him."

Lord Dere regarded in puzzlement his great-nephew Peter, who was not so very small, and whom the peer would have called a healthy, roaring boy—just see how he swung his restless limbs as he sat, the heels of his boots thwacking satisfactorily against the mahogany chair legs! But perhaps Mrs. Dere could not help her concern, after the lung ailment which carried off her husband.

"You both might consider removing here to Perryfield, now that my nephew is no more," Lord Dere mused, helpfully inserting his foot in the trap. "When Markham was alive, of course, he liked to have his own roof, as any young man would, but now…"

"Now that he is gone," whispered Mrs. Dere, applying her handkerchief to the corners of her eyes. "Things are so altered!"

"Yes. I am sorry for it, my dear. He ought to have long outlived me. But again, now that Markham is gone and Peter is heir to Perryfield, perhaps it makes sense for you both to remove here."

His niece by marriage showed just the proper amount of reluctance, raising possible objections only to yield quickly, asking to be taken through the rooms that very day, and, indeed, almost before Lord Dere could say Jack Robinson, Mrs. Markham Dere and Peter were installed in his home. A brief tussle followed between the new mistress and Mrs. Robson, the housekeeper of twenty years, but Mrs. Dere prevailed in this as well, as she did in all things.

Not a month later she sat at the Perryfield breakfast table, bathed in triumph and mild summer sunshine, running an approving eye over the new paint and plaster of the room (truly, the paper chosen by Lord Dere's mother had been so hideously old-fashioned!).

"Post, madam," announced the footman Wood, marching straight past Lord Dere's outstretched hand to deposit the stack at Mrs. Dere's place.

"Ah," she purred. "Answers to my advertisement."

"Which advertisement?" asked Lord Dere. He was not unhappy with the recent changes to life at Perryfield, but he was sorry Wood did not hand him the post.

Mrs. Dere shuffled through the letters. "For Peter's tutor, naturally."

"Did the rector have no one to suggest? One might shoot an arrow over Oxford and bring down a flock of tutors."

"I think it always best to consider every possibility," she answered. "Where has Wood gone? Here is one letter for you, sir. Peter, pass this to Lord Dere."

Always eager for movement, the boy sprang up, tipping his plate when he pushed off the table and sending his toast butter-downward on the cloth. His mother clicked her tongue but did not look up, and the next moment Lord Dere's letter was delivered, now bearing several greasy fingerprints.

After Mrs. Dere sorted the candidates into two piles, she began to re-read the promising replies, that she might further winnow the chaff from the wheat. Absorbing work, which was why she did not notice Lord Dere's murmurings until Peter cried, "Who, sir? Who will have the Iffley cottage?"

Lord Dere raised his pale blue eyes, still clear despite his eight-and-fifty years. "Mrs. Barstow, my boy."

"Mrs. Barstow ?" repeated Mrs. Dere. "My good sir, what are you talking about?"

"I daresay you have never heard of her," he answered gently. "She would have been Markham's cousin—first cousin, once removed, or second cousin? At any rate, my own aunt's youngest child, so my cousin Camilla, whom I have not seen, oh, for years and years. But I remember her as a sweet, shy person. She married a clergyman. And perhaps I met her oldest child once as an infant? Yes, I do believe I did—bright brown eyes, which is a curious thing, isn't it? Brown eyes are usually described as ‘warm,' not ‘bright'—"

"But sir," interrupted Mrs. Dere, "what of this Mrs. Barstow? What did Peter say about the Iffley cottage?"

"It was I who was saying it. That, now that you and Peter have removed to Perryfield, I may offer the Iffley cottage to the Barstows."

"But—but—you say Barstows in the plural? Who are these Barstows?"

"Heavens, Mrs. Dere, I just explained to you. My cousin Mrs. Barstow—Camilla—and her one, two, three…" He consulted the letter again, frowning and then tapping his fingertip on the table to count—heaven forfend!—each additional Barstow!

Mrs. Dere's hand fluttered to her bosom, all the tutorial candidates forgotten. "Lord Dere, what can you be thinking? Peter and I have only just quit the cottage! And while I was as careful a mistress of it as any in England, you will remember Peter is an active boy, so it would benefit from new paint and—and—carpets—"

"Draw up a list, Mrs. Dere, and it will all be done, though in that case I had better write to this… Miss Barstow (the eldest daughter) and tell her their removal must wait until after harvest home, or there will be nobody to do the work. Perhaps they may come in another month."

"But who precisely is ‘they'?"

His smooth brow furrowed as he pondered the grammar of her question, but upon deciding it was correct though odd-sounding, he said, "Mrs. Barstow and her four daughters, one son, and one widowed daughter-in-law with infant, poor creature."

Mrs. Dere swayed in the face of this astonishing assembly of unmarried ladies and fatherless children springing up ex nihilo , and she stared at him, utterly confounded. Her son Peter dropped the marmalade spoon on the cloth, however, and shouted, "A son? The Barstows have a son? How old is he, sir?"

"Let me see…seven. Gordon Barstow is seven. Why, you and he might share this new tutor! Mrs. Dere, in your calculations, you will have to determine if any of these young men would be amenable to two pupils, rather than just the one. But—oh, dear—if it was too much to expect Peter here to walk from the Iffley cottage to Perryfield for lessons, perhaps it will also be too much for this Gordon."

"Yes," Mrs. Dere struck in, recovering her wind and rising to face this new eight-headed peril. Who were these Barstows, that they thought nothing of draping their eight selves about the neck of a distant relation and demanding he save them? What was the world coming to? Oh, how disagreeable to have the baron's compassion so easily played upon!

"Too far for Gordon indeed," she resumed. "He had better be sent to school in Oxford. Magdalen College School or Nixon's."

"No, Mama!" protested Peter, going unheeded.

"Or perhaps these persons would do better to remain where they are. So many children! Why should they all uproot themselves?"

Lord Dere sighed, shaking his distinguished, silver-haired head. "But they must go somewhere, Mrs. Dere. For they have been overcome by misfortune. In the last year, both my cousin Camilla's husband and her older son have died! The son first, from injuries sustained in a naval action, and Mr. Barstow more recently of a fever. The new priest kindly did not expel them at once from the parsonage, though he would have been within his rights, but Mrs. Barstow says they cannot stay and stay."

"But—but— eight people, Lord Dere! The cottage could not hold five in any comfort!"

"You are right to say it will be a squeeze. Perhaps—if the walk for Gordon will be burdensome—perhaps some of them should join us at Perryfield? Though they may not like to be separated after so much loss."

He could not have more swiftly silenced all Mrs. Dere's objections if he had meditated on the matter for a fortnight. The mere mention of this potential danger, of having to invite any of this swarm of poor relations to share the roof and possibly the rule of Perryfield, took her breath away. Lord—better to stuff eight penniless, luckless, hapless dependents in Iffley Cottage than to welcome any (or all!) to Perryfield! Suppose this Mrs. Barstow or any of her hundred daughters or the daughter-in-law should be a cunning, enterprising baggage? Insupportable! But one could not gather so many females without at least one of them turning out to be a minx. Ah, Mrs. Dere mourned anticipatively, it was the ruin of everything. Absolutely everything. For what would become of her own golden life, which she had arranged exactly how she wanted it?

She was too new to Perryfield and to managing Lord Dere to insist on her own way and too wise a woman to act rashly. Therefore she beat a decorous retreat.

"You are right, Lord Dere. They will not like to be separated. I am certain room can be found at the cottage. It is likely the children were already sharing bedchambers at their rectory and would prefer to continue. And if the son is but seven, the others cannot be much older."