Chapter 9

Marriage is a desperate thing, the Frogs in ?sop…would not leap into the Well, because they could not get out again.

— R. Milward , Selden's Table-talk 33 (1689)

If Lord Dere took to heart the warnings of his tenants' possible machinations, no sign of it appeared when he welcomed his guests. Mrs. Barstow, Sarah and Adela arrived at the same time as the Terrys because the coach had been sent for the lot of them. Weatherill was already present in the drawing room when they arrived, preferring not to draw attention to himself by making an entrance, and from his position behind the Deres he had time to make one lightning survey before the guests acknowledged him.

Miss Barstow wore the same blue gown from the morning, minus the muslin tucker, as the September day had grown quite warm. Having also removed her bonnet, the dark hair which had fascinated him at church was revealed in all its luster. Straightening from her curtsey, she raised a glowing face to Lord Dere, only to jar to a halt, blinking, her gaze snagging on the tutor. This infinitesimal break went unnoticed by the others, Lord Dere having turned to address Mr. Terry, but Weatherill raised an arch brow. Yes, here I am. Will that interfere with your evening's plans?

It would. Absolutely it would.

It was not embarrassment or shame which caused the hitch in her movement, but something equally disturbing to Adela. For her first thought on recognizing him was, Goodness, but Mr. Weatherill truly is handsome in his new clothing!

As much as Weatherill had been avoiding her, Adela had been avoiding him in return. Why else would she confine her visits to the morning and let Gordy walk home alone from Perryfield? In the mornings there was less chance of Mr. Weatherill rattling about loose. Less chance of encountering his condemnatory gaze and feeling her shame rise up to choke her. For she was ashamed. Humiliated that her desperate scheme should be guessed at and censured. Humiliated that he thought ill of her as a result.

Added to these unhappy feelings, Adela fretted that her actions were transparent to all. For if Mr. Weatherill saw through her so easily, Mrs. Markham Dere would be the next. (It never occurred to Adela to think that Mr. Weatherill scrutinized her in a way Mrs. Dere did not.)

At church that morning, after her first amazement, Adela had been determined not to look again at her judge, and when Frances talked later of "Mr. Weatherill's new coat" and what everyone thought of it, Adela made an excuse to leave the room.

And now—here he was—unavoidable! Dressed like a county gentleman and standing in the drawing room as if he belonged there! The mocking look he gave her only added to her confusion, and for a moment she thought of postponing her wooing work to another day. But how could she, after the fortnight already lost to her cowardice? She was like a mason ordered to complete a brick wall by a certain date, but who was only allowed to lay one brick per day. One morning walk to Perryfield with Gordy and ten words spoken to Lord Dere: one brick. Lord Dere slowing his carriage in the village to greet her and Sarah as they returned from their call on the rector's wife: another brick. Another time accompanying Gordy, but only having Lord Dere wave to them as he rode over his grounds beside his steward: a fraction of a brick. At this creeping pace Adela could only say the baron seemed to like her as well as anyone else, no better and no worse, but that was a very long way from wanting to offer for her.

But this evening—this evening must be the start of a determined campaign! This evening she no longer had a choice but to build the wall as high and as hastily as she could, for she had finally, finally heard from her sister Jane. And far from reassuring her, Jane's letter so unsettled Adela that she had yet to share it with the family.

For the past fortnight Adela had made visits to the Tree Inn upon her return from Perryfield, becoming a familiar sight to the postmistress Mrs. Lamb and accepting with equal impassivity bills forwarded from Twyford and letters from past neighbors and parishioners. Therefore, when Mrs. Lamb placed in Adela's hands a letter with the direction written in a familiar, spiky script, Adela paid over the pennies without a tremble. There was trembling enough, however, after she stole away to Iffley Meadow to read its contents unwitnessed. The missive was long and crossed, and even in the bright sunlight Adela had to hold it close at times to decipher it. Or perhaps it was her tears which blurred the page.

Birdbury Inn

Shropshire

10 September 1800

My dear Della,

The coach for London leaves within the hour, but I scribble you this note because I know you have been waiting and waiting for word from me. Oh, how I wish I could see your sweet face, and Mama's and Frances' and Maria's and Gordy's and Sarah's and Bash's! You mustn't think I regret marrying my Roger—for we are married, and you must tell Mama so she may cease to be anxious on that point. The journey to Scotland was long and arduous, though we went as quickly as it could be managed. I cried a great deal, I am afraid, and fretted Roger so, but I could not help it because I missed you all and thought how you would all cry yourselves to find me gone, and though I love Roger I did not like to be on the road with him before we were married, for fear of what everyone we met would think.

I will say little of the ceremony itself, except that it was not at all like in the novels we read. It was raining and muddy, and our witness was cross with a toothache, but Roger says we will laugh about all that soon enough. We stayed only a night in Gretna Green before returning to Carlisle, where we spent two days because Roger wanted to inspect the garrison and castle, and I wanted to rest. Della, when I think I had never before been ten miles from Twyford! Now, to jaunt thus all over Britain—for we proceeded from Carlisle to Penrith, Penrith to Kendal, Kendal to Lancaster, Lancaster to Preston, Preston to Liverpool, Liverpool to Warrington, Warrington to Chester, Chester to Whitchurch, Whitchurch to Shrewsbury. I am exhausted anew just recording our journey. I did so try to be a good traveler, for Roger's sake, but I fear I got very homesick and had all I could do not to weep for weariness.

We had hoped, of course, that Shropshire would be the end of our wanderings. Roger went first and alone to see his aunt Merritt, thinking it better if she knew nothing of our marriage until he could prepare her, but our precautions were all for naught. Mrs. Merritt flew into a towering, unreasoning rage and said many terrible things about how Roger has proven unworthy to be her heir or even to claim the name of gentleman(!). She said she had been more than patient while he sowed his wild oats, but she could be patient no longer, not if he had been such a fool as to marry a "destitute green girl" who could do nothing for him, instead of a Miss Barker person who had always hoped to marry him and who boasts a fortune of fifteen thousand pounds. (When Roger related his interview to me, I did cry—I could not help it—to be the cause of his ruin and estrangement. He comforted me with kisses and assurances of his affection and declares if she continues thus he might refuse to know her, but how can these blows not diminish his love for me, eventually?) For there will be no army commission from Mrs. Merritt, she vows, nor even a continuance of his allowance, and we must make our own way in the world. I offered to meet her, to see if I could soften her obduracy, but Roger thought it unwise at present. He said perhaps later, if there were to be a child…His aunt had been very fond of him as a child.

You must tell Mama as much of this as you think best, Della, but we go to London now, where Roger hopes to find employment. I might also do some sewing or trimming of bonnets, though you know you and Frances and Sarah are better at such things than I. Again, you must not fear that I regret my elopement. It has not turned out as I imagined when he proposed to me, but it will come right in the end. When I think of how my absence lightens Mama's burden (for at least it stretches her money further), I take some comfort. And now that you can tell her I am indeed married, she will think it was the best course.

How I wish I knew where we would be, so that when we arrived there would be a letter from you! I miss and miss all of you and long to hear how you are liking the cottage and whether Lord Dere is a cross old bear who resents you or whether he loves you all already and does not begrudge a penny of the outlay. If the latter, perhaps he might be brought to recommend Roger for a post somewhere? Oh, may heaven forgive me for that last line. My dear, enterprising husband will manage it all.

There is the coachman calling, and I must go. A thousand kisses.

Your own affectionate sister,

Jane Merritt

If the paper Jane sent had not already been cockled with the new bride's own tears, the drops which fell from Adela's eyes upon reading it would have served the purpose. The heartening news that her sister was indeed married and not altogether ruined as the Barstows feared was swallowed up in all that followed, and it was hard to say which part of the rest was most distressing. Yes, the marriage was accomplished, but was it not a case of "out of the frying pan, into the fire"? Jane, crying! Lighthearted Jane, who always teased her sister into good humor. The contrast between this weeping, worried letter and the laughing, heedless note she left when she eloped! As much pain as Jane's actions had caused her family, Adela wept just as hard to learn of her sister's unhappiness, homesickness, and fears, which the sad little offer of learning to be a seamstress or milliner and the repetition of her trust in Roger Merritt only emphasized. What would become of her? How long would Jane's little purse keep them? Could Lord Dere be brought to do anything for them?

But to ask Lord Dere for assistance at this juncture might bring everything down about their ears. Without having gained his affection or his promised protection, Adela could only appeal to his pity and native kindness, while an outraged Mrs. Markham Dere could call upon Morality. Propriety. What Was Owed to His Heir. What Was Owed to the Dere Name. She would persuade him that poor relations were one thing, but black sheep must be driven off and penned elsewhere.

No. Adela had no alternative but to keep to her plan, Mr. Weatherill or no Mr. Weatherill.

This evening she would play and possibly sing for Lord Dere. Or partner him at cards. Or sit beside him in the drawing room after dinner. Or read to the company, if that was what he preferred. And she would agree on behalf of her family—over her mother's continued hesitations and demurrals—to the baron's repeated invitation to dine regularly at Perryfield, that more metaphorical bricks could be laid at speed. And somewhere in between all those activities, she would court Mrs. Markham Dere because Frances was not here to do so. (Not that Frances said much in Mrs. Dere's presence, but the very way she would sit quietly and admire the woman as if she were one of the wonders of the world, had not escaped Mrs. Dere's flattered notice.)

Yes. The work must go on, whether Mr. Weatherill were present or not, handsome or not.

Therefore, with a lift of her chin, Adela inwardly shoved her misgivings and dismay in an imaginary trunk and sat upon the lid. Giving Mr. Weatherill a tick of a nod, she proceeded to ignore him.

"Sir," Adela addressed Lord Dere at the first possible opportunity, when the weather, the ride over, the morning service, and Mrs. Dere's latest amendments to the drawing room had been thoroughly discussed. "I was in Iffley Meadow yesterday and was delighted to come upon an insect I hoped you might identify."

The baron's face brightened at once. "You don't say, my dear Miss Barstow! Did you capture it?"

(Adela had a brief memory of running her fingers through the plants along the riverbank as she mulled over Jane's letter, only to have a stem swing back like a trebuchet to fling the creature at her, from which she ran screeching.)

"Sadly, no," she answered. "But it was a beetle, a green one, and shiny like metal. And it was on a stalk of tansy."

Slapping his knees in delight he replied, "Why, you have named him yourself then, my young entomologist! It must have been a tansy beetle. Chrysolina graminis . Quite a beauty. I have one in my collection, which I will show you as confirmation of your discovery."

"Thank you, sir."

"Perhaps Miss Barstow might like to fetch the tray herself from the library cabinet," spoke up Mr. Weatherill.

Adela would gladly have thrown a cushion at him for this, but it was the rector who intervened. "Speaking of beetles, Weatherill, now that I have learned of your connection to Exeter's own William Keele... Do you know, long ago I once read a treatise of his on the Egyptian predilection for scarab beetles."

" Scarabaeus sacer ," supplied Lord Dere. "The Kheper, more familiarly known as the dung beetle."

Sudden scarlet washed over Mr. Weatherill's face, but before he could reply, Mrs. Dere intervened.

"Absolutely no beetles before dinner," she insisted. "And my dear uncle, I do wish you would indulge me. Let there be no exhibition of your specimens on this occasion. I had hopes of spending our time more decorously this evening. For while you love your insects, you also love music. When we have eaten, we shall have the Barstows and Mrs. Terry play for you."

The others politely (or happily) allowed the subject of beetles to drop, but Adela pondered the tutor's unexpected discomfiture at the rector's comment. Heaven knew Mr. Weatherill did not share her dread of insects, so was it the reference to his former mentor Mr. Keele or to Exeter or to Egypt which disturbed him? If, for whatever reason, the tutor was going to throw grenades at her, it would behoove Adela to arm herself in turn.

When Wood called them to dinner, Lord Dere led Mrs. Terry, followed by the rector and Mrs. Dere. Mr. Weatherill then offered his arm to Mrs. Barstow, leaving Sarah and Adela to bring up the rear.

With only eight at table and everyone seated by precedence, Adela found herself between the Terrys and directly across from Mr. Weatherill, which meant nothing she said would go unheard by him, unless Sarah or Mrs. Barstow chanced to engross him in private conversation. But with Jane's letter utmost in her thoughts, Adela would not be deterred.

"Well, Lord Dere, how do you like having young boys at Perryfield?" asked Mrs. Terry. "It has been a very long while—since Mrs. Markham Dere's husband was a boy, I imagine."

"I like it well. They are good lads."

"Sir, allow us to say again how grateful we are for Gordon to learn beside Peter. He loves his lessons—"

"Miss Barstow, if you will forgive me for interrupting you, I must beg you never to mention it again. It heartens me to see Peter with someone his age, for I am too old to frolic." This last was delivered with a benignant gleam in his eye. "But perhaps it is not me you should thank, for if Gordon were any trouble, it would be Weatherill who has ‘borne the burden and the heat of the day.'"

All heads turned toward the tutor, who lay down his spoon. "They both have a great deal of energy, but if we break up the lessons with some active game or running about the grounds or up and down the stairs, I find them willing enough to apply themselves."

"Indeed?" responded the rector. "Perhaps I should try such things myself with Wardour, my youngest pupil. For a boy of eight he is remarkably restless."

"More like a puppy," agreed his wife.

"Were the pupils at your former school so young, Weatherill?" Mr. Terry asked. "I suppose Keele gave you the younger ones, for he could hardly be expected to romp about or to apply the whip when necessary."

Again Adela noted how Mr. Weatherill's color came and went, but he said merely, "One or two of them were young."

"We have three pupils at the rectory now," rejoined Mrs. Terry. "Thomas Wardour the puppy, his older cousin, twelve-year-old Thomas Ellis (two Toms in one household! You will understand why we only refer to them by their surnames), and the son of a former pupil, one George Denver. Denver is just fifteen and might as well have ‘Innocent as the Newborn Babe' branded on his forehead. In fact, I tell Mr. Terry Denver's education must be enlarged beyond the classics, history, geography, and mathematics, or what will become of him in that den of vice known as Oxford? He will fall at once into debt and drunkenness and heaven knows what else, out of sheer simplicity! I rather wish his parents had sent him to a school in London such as yours, Mr. Weatherill, for then his eyes would have been opened long ago, I daresay."

Though used to Mrs. Terry's outspokenness, Mrs. Markham Dere nonetheless took offense at this and gave a curt laugh. "My very dear Mrs. Terry, what can you mean? Of course you cannot think I would entrust my Peter to a tutor who was not of the highest character and who did not demand the same of his charges, no matter the setting of the school. And while there are indeed some parts of town which no man might frequent without stain to his reputation, they are hardly places where schools are found!" With an air of having put Mrs. Terry firmly in her place, Mrs. Dere turned to regard Mr. Weatherill, fully expecting him to share her indignation and to come thundering in, righteous and wrathful.

"AUUUUUUGGGH!" roared Mr. Weatherill. "HAUUUGH! HAUGH!"

Everyone at the table jumped at this eruption, as did Wood and the other footman standing along the wall. Cries of "Gracious!" and "Mercy!" rang from Mrs. Terry and Mrs. Dere, but before anyone could do more than this, the tutor sprang up, napkin to his face, and bolted from the dining room.

"Follow him, Uncle!" Mrs. Dere commanded. "It's a fit of apoplexy!"

But Adela held up her hand. "No, no, madam—it's only that he choked on his soup, I believe. He will be better presently." And indeed, as they all listened, they could hear Weatherill in the passage, his wounded-rhinoceros barks diminishing ever so gradually to robust coughs interspersed with wheezing.

"Ah," said Mrs. Dere, simultaneously taken aback by such a performance and relieved it was not worse. "Wood—take Mr. Weatherill his glass of wine. Mrs. Terry, do tell us what you intend to do, for this young Mr. Denver's protection…"

The conversation and the meal moved on, Mr. Weatherill stealing back to his seat before many minutes had passed, but Adela studied him furtively, taking care to look elsewhere if he glanced at her.

She had found her weapon, she was certain. For there was some mystery here. Some secret. She had seen his jaw tighten with Mrs. Terry's reference to his London school, but it had been Mrs. Dere's fierce defense of his character which caused his unfortunate intake of breath and soup. Had his former school failed in producing upright young men? Had Mr. Keele been some sort of reprobate? Or had Mr. Weatherill been dismissed from thence for some failure of character? Did he, as much as the Barstows, have a scandal to be hidden? Whether he did or no, from the state of his original clothing she knew he was as poor or even poorer than they, and had therefore as much to lose.

As she ate her fish and what Mrs. Dere reported was the last of the grass lambs, Adela puzzled over the mystery, taking care still to smile when Lord Dere smiled and to toss in murmurs of approbation when he spoke. By the time the dishes were removed and the apricot tart placed on the table, only one thing was clear to her: Mr. Weatherill feared banishment from Perryfield as much as Adela did. But why then did he choose to judge her and pick at her? Could they somehow band together to achieve their aims?

She dismissed the idea soon enough. No—if Lord Dere and Mrs. Markham Dere could only be brought to tolerate one scandal, it had better be the Barstows'. Let Mr. Weatherill look to himself—a handsome young man would always land on his feet.

Even as she arrived at this conclusion, she lifted her eyes to him. Eyes which said, Sir, you may have taken my measure, but now beware, for I have also taken yours.