Chapter 10

Barren, barren, barren; beggars all, beggars all.

— Shakespeare , Henry IV, Part II, V.iii.3401 (c.1596)

Really, if one counted the tithes paid by the baron to the church, the entire company that night was dependent on Lord Dere's beneficence, and had his nature contained the least tyrannical streak, he could have made their lives unpleasant.

As it was, when they repaired to the drawing room, he allowed the ladies to choose their seats before settling on the sofa beside the rector and saying, "How shall we entertain ourselves? With reading, cards or music?"

"They all sound delightful," answered Mr. Terry, "but because Mrs. Terry and I have a house full of boys, I confess a leaning toward music. What do you say, my dear?"

"You speak for both of us, Mr. Terry," his wife agreed. "While Denver and Ellis have been learning the fiddle and Wardour the flute, it would be a stretch to call it music. Come, Mrs. Barstow. Let us hear your family's repertoires. It will all be new to us."

Sarah visibly shrank at this request, and both her mother- and sister-in-law knew how little she liked to perform for strangers. Therefore Mrs. Barstow turned to Adela, who rose at once to go to the instrument. Having no pianoforte in Iffley Cottage, it had been weeks since she played, and a rill of nerves rippled through her. But the thought of Jane bolstered her as she leafed through the sheet music, lighting on a piano sonata which had been part of their collection in Berkshire—one of her father's favorites, in fact.

Choosing it was a mistake, perhaps, for as soon as Adela played the opening bars, she heard a little hmm from her mother and felt her own throat constrict. Oh, Papa! If you had lived, none of this would be necessary. None of this would have happened. If you had lived, we would still be secure in our happy Twyford home.

But Adela had to concentrate her efforts, and she was rewarded by both the gradual easing of tightness in her person and by the baron bursting out with applause at the conclusion. "Brava, Miss Barstow! Now that I know you can play Haydn, you will find yourself obliged to do so with tedious regularity, I'm afraid."

Catching the raised eyebrow of Mr. Weatherill over Lord Dere's shoulder, Adela's answering flutter was not all assumed. "I am a little rusty and made more mistakes than I would have liked, but thank you, sir. To tell the truth, I only muddled my way through that one because we had that music in Twyford."

Perplexity fleeted across the baron's features before he snapped his fingers. "Ah—of course. You did not bring your instrument when you removed to Oxfordshire. I should have remembered that. What a shame. But Miss Barstow, you must come to Perryfield whenever you like to practice. Your sisters as well."

"Thank you, sir."

"And if it would not be too tiring for you now, would you play a little more?"

With a surge of satisfaction, Adela dutifully chose a second piece—an easier one—which met with equal delight from Lord Dere, but she demurred from the performance of a third because she noted the tightening of Mrs. Dere's lips.

"Mrs. Dere," she said impulsively, "now might we hear you play or sing? Just as Mrs. Terry craved novelty, so too do we Barstows."

It was the right thing to say, for Mrs. Dere required little coaxing to replace Adela at the instrument, and after a nod to Mrs. Terry to rise and assist in turning the pages, the good woman both played and sang. With the hostess occupied, Adela offered to make the tea when it was brought in, learning that Lord Dere liked his very milky but not sweet. (Whereas the rector preferred sweet but no milk, so Adela must take care not to confuse them.)

"May I make you a cup, Mr. Weatherill?" Adela asked him softly, when the others had been served and she could no longer avoid speaking to him.

He did not answer right away, though he looked at her, and she felt her color rise. "What?" she demanded, sotto voce .

"You have done well for yourself tonight. Earning admiration all around ."

Her brows flew together at the light emphasis in his words, and she retaliated with a flick of the finger toward his new clothing. "I might say the same to you."

Straightening in his chair, his jaw hardened. " These are from an advance on my wages, that Mrs. Dere might be spared the pains of my shabbiness."

For no reason whatsoever, a spark of annoyance stung her. Mrs. Dere interested herself in the tutor's appearance? "How thoughtful of you to consider her feelings," said Adela.

"I mean that she requested I buy a new wardrobe," he clarified.

"Did she? What presumption! And I suppose you let her choose the colors for you?"

Her vexation was returned, it appeared, for he retorted, "I myself chose them. Because, I repeat, I paid for the clothing from my future earnings. They were not charity. Not that you would balk at the latter, I suppose. I daresay if you asked for the gift of a pianoforte, Lord Dere would deliver one to the cottage by week's end."

"And if he did? Why would that be your concern? He would not need to rob your pocket to do so."

"I was not expressing concern. Merely making an observation. Calling a spade a spade."

" What spade?" she hissed. "There are no spades here, sir, requiring your identification."

"Oh no, Miss Barstow? If it were permissible to contradict a lady—"

But here Mrs. Dere's clear soprano and Mrs. Terry's accompaniment faded into applause, in which Adela and Mr. Weatherill quickly joined. The latter overdid his appreciation by raising his arms, however, which drew Mrs. Dere's eyes to him standing beside Adela. Adela stiffened, and it took everything in her to resist stepping away from him, which would only make her appear guilty.

"Did you say milk and two sugars?" she asked loudly.

"Just a touch of milk and only one sugar, thank you."

Adela escaped to prepare his tea, relieved to hear Mrs. Dere begin another song. And though it was petty of her, she ignored Weatherill's preferences and stirred in a half inch of milk and two sugars, as if she were preparing Gordy's childish cup. I will give it to him without another word , she decided. Let him be Mrs. Dere's pet, and let me be Lord Dere's, and we will both have what we seek. But she still dragged her feet as she approached.

He rose.

With her expression elaborately blank, she held the cup out.

But he did not take it from her.

His hazel eyes narrowed, fixed on hers. At this nearness she saw his irises were ringed in brown, with green and brown and golden shades radiating from the centers.

"Here," breathed Adela, as if he might somehow have overlooked the teacup.

The intensity of his gaze held her locked. "Admit—it," he bit out, his voice scarcely above a rumble.

"Admit what?" she returned, clenching her teeth to quash the shiver which went through her, tip to toe. She did not think any man had ever looked at her so hard.

"Admit that you're chasing him."

Anger flared, warring with shame, and she would have denied it again, but his gaze would not let her. "I—I—" The cup rattled in her grasp, and she set it down on the nearest table, the milky liquid slopping into the saucer.

"And if I am?" she croaked. "What business is it of yours? Why don't you admit you're just as eager to please Mrs. Dere because there's something you—you don't want her to know."

That served. His breath caught sharply, and it was he who faltered. The shadow she had seen before fell once more over his features, and though he did not stir a step, she was left with the sensation that he had withdrawn, retreated beyond her reach.

What more was there to be said? Adela turned on her heel and walked away, returning to the tea urn.

Then she had guessed right—that Mr. Weatherill, like she, kept some shameful secret which could jeopardize all. And now he knew that she knew of its existence. It hardly mattered that she did not know the details, any more than he knew about Jane. The mere mention of its reality was enough. He would leave her in peace now. She had fired her new weapon, as it were, and it had carried the day.

So why did she feel as if she had lost?

Drumming upon the last chord and following it with a playful trill, the rector's wife spun on the bench to curtsey alongside Mrs. Dere when their audience broke into renewed applause.

"Excellent, Mrs. Dere, Mrs. Terry," the baron praised them. "And now you must rest and enjoy your tea."

"Lord Dere," the rector's wife addressed him some minutes later, her blue eyes twinkling with mischief, "since I find you of such a musical mind, I have a little proposal to make you. I warn you: Mr. Terry has not given his approval, preferring to defer to you, but I assure you you will like it."

Mr. Terry shook his head fondly at his wife.

"What about me, Mrs. Terry?" interposed Mrs. Dere, indignant at not having been consulted. "Will I like this proposal?"

"Of course you will, madam," she replied with a laugh. "But first I must ask a question of the newest member of our community. Mrs. Barstow, are your family great dancers?"

Surprised to be addressed, Mrs. Barstow turned a faint pink. "We are all of us perfectly adequate, Mrs. Terry, though we have not done any dancing in months." Spreading her arms, she indicated the tokens of their mourning, but the rector's wife shook her head at this.

"I do not ask you to dance publicly, and therefore mourning makes not a jot of difference. Especially when your participation would be an act of charity. I have told you all of our innocent boy Denver. He simply must practice some dancing and social niceties before he is cast upon the wicked world. If you and your daughters are amenable, I pray the baron and Mrs. Dere would let us hold an informal little assembly here. A mere nothing, a children's ball. The young ones will stand up together, and we older people will teach them the figures. You have so many girls, Mrs. Barstow, and of such varying ages. It will be perfect."

Mrs. Dere made preliminary sounds which almost certainly would have developed into objections, had Lord Dere not struck across her with a decisive, "A splendid notion, Mrs. Terry. If Mrs. Barstow consents, Perryfield is at your disposal."

Raising helpless palms, Mrs. Barstow answered in her mild way that she would be content with whatever they should decide, and Mrs. Terry clapped her hands in satisfaction before turning back to the instrument to pound a few triumphant chords from Handel's Rinaldo. "It is decided! Denver shall be saved! Now, before the baron chooses a date, Mrs. Dere, won't you indulge us by letting us try a figure or two tonight? If I recall, you are an excellent dancer, and it has been too long since we have been treated to seeing you."

Adela had to admire the skill with which the lively, white-haired rector's wife flattered and managed Mrs. Dere, for their hostess blushed prettily and called at once for the footmen to roll back the carpet and push the furniture against the walls. Too bad Frances was not with them, to study Mrs. Terry's methods! Adela would have to study them for her.

"Who will be our three couples?" demanded Mrs. Terry briskly. "I must play, of course, and the baron, Mr. Terry, and Mr. Weatherill must be our gentlemen, but who besides Mrs. Dere will be our ladies?"

Both Mrs. Barstow and Sarah attempted to excuse themselves, which meant Sarah had to yield to her mother-in-law, but Adela naturally had no more choice in the matter than the gentlemen. And as the gentlemen courteously chose their partners by rank, she found a tight-lipped Mr. Weatherill asking her for the honor when Mrs. Terry called them to take their places.

"When we have all the children there will be enough for a good longways dance," she explained, "but with only three couples we had better keep to…let me see…Country Courtship and The Happy Couple." She waved the corresponding sheets of music. "Now, now, Mr. Terry—do not fret if you don't remember the steps, for I will play slowly and call them out."

Since Country Courtship was set to the Irish Washerwoman tune, it was long familiar to Adela, but never had she heard it played with Mrs. Terry's drawn-out deliberation. "Country Courtship! Now, then, first couple cast down and second lead up…First couple half figure eight down around third couple…"

The result of this pace was that, what would ordinarily be a touch and go, a turn and pass, a circle and wind, became something altogether different.

Adela and Mr. Weatherill took their places as the third couple in the set, but mercifully for the first part of the pattern they had only to stand there across from each other, not touching, attention fixed on Mrs. Terry at the pianoforte and the first and second couples. Mrs. Terry might have praised Mrs. Dere's dancing, but Adela thought the baron more deserving. For a man of his age he moved with grace and fluidity—far more so than the stumping, methodical Mr. Terry. As Lord Dere passed before her in the figure eight, he gave her a droll wink, and she smiled and blushed, though the blush was more for fear Mr. Weatherill saw the wink than otherwise.

At last she and the tutor entered the figures, passing back to back without a word before having to take each other's hands for the rights-and-lefts. Each grasp of the hand lasted as long as a handshake. Each turning in circle a season. Adela could not account for how she might take Lord Dere's hand or Mrs. Dere's with no more care than if they were strangers on the street, but Mr. Weatherill's—!

Why, Mr. Weatherill's bare hand was composed of electricity wrapped in velvet, and each time Adela lay her fingers across his palm, she felt the contact to every fiber-end of her person. Oh! If only she had replaced her gloves after playing the pianoforte! They would have offered some protection from this unnerving sensation.

Praying her treacherous weakness was known only to her, she kept her lashes lowered and forced herself to think of other things. Harmless things. Things which would prevent telltale blood from rushing to her face to betray her. She thought of boiled ham and brickbats. Bombazine and badgers. Bag bonnets and ballooning.

Nothing worked.

Adela grew pinker and pinker. Her palms began to sweat. When it came time for their two-hand turn (which they had to repeat over and over because Mr. Terry was bungling the rights-and-lefts below), meeting Mr. Weatherill's eyes could no longer be avoided. But she was afraid to. Would his hazel gaze fascinate her again, as a snake did its prey? Or—almost as alarming—would he still be withdrawn? Angry?

He was neither. He was…Adela didn't know. His color was high—as high as hers, she imagined—and she thought he appeared almost…sheepish?

"Mr. Weatherill—"

"Miss Barstow—"

He yielded to her, of course, and she heard herself say (underneath Mrs. Terry's insistent, "No, Mr. Terry! Clockwise!"), "Mr. Weatherill, what I said earlier—please pardon me—it sounded as if I wanted to threaten you. I do not. Nor do I mean to pry. Your business is your own, just as I hope my business is my own. I am not—seeking to make enemies."

His smile with its single dimple bloomed, and Adela's pulse sped for entirely other reasons. "Permit me to apologize in turn for my inexcusable efforts to provoke you, Miss Barstow. I have not the right. As we have acknowledged before, we are both of us in the unwanted and precarious position of dependent. No wonder it makes us…cross at times."

"Yes," she agreed with alacrity. "We lash out from dissatisfaction with our own…helplessness. Or that is a portion of it." His disapproval of her accounted for the other portion, Adela knew, but what could she do about that? She must do what she must do, and the devil take the hindmost.

As if following her train of thought he said, "While I am anxious to declare a truce, Miss Barstow, there is one thing I cannot understand."

"O-oh?"

"In the weeks you have been here, I would say your family have already become favorites. Is—more than that—necessary for your peace of mind?"

It was her turn to shrink away, which she did physically as well as inwardly, averting her head, lest he read the answer in her eyes. A truce was one thing—but confiding Jane's calamitous elopement another altogether.

For his part, had it been possible, Weatherill would have snatched the words back—anything to restore the amity they had been enjoying—but before he could think what to say, a jangle came from the instrument and Mrs. Terry cried, "That's right! You've got it now, my dear. First couple! Mr. Terry has mastered the rights-and-lefts at last. Miss Barstow, Mr. Weatherill, if you would go twice in circle yet again, please."

With a grimace at the timing of it, Weatherill held out both hands, and, after the briefest hesitation, Adela placed hers lightly within his clasp. She was trembling, and it might have been this which made him press them convulsively. As they whirled around, he bent his head to catch her eyes again.

Look at me .

But she would not. Adela was too occupied in willing her trembling to stop. Never mind that the electricity and velvet made nonsense of her thoughts, so much so that she botched the figure eight in her haste to put distance between herself and Mr. Weatherill. Let them all think her a blunderer, only never let them guess that she—that she—

Only later, as she lay beside the sleeping Sarah, did Adela have the courage to finish her thought. Never let them guess how attractive I find him.

It was only that, she told herself. Only an involuntary response to a young man's charm and good looks, nothing more. Knowing hardly anything of the man, how could it be more? Yes, yes, she supposed he could be kind, as well, and was already a great favorite with Gordy, but he was also penniless, mysterious, evasive. Sometimes antagonistic. Therefore what possible good could come of liking him? Even were she to indulge these budding feelings, and even were he to come to return them, they could lead nowhere. The two of them could never afford to marry, much less support her large family, and Adela would never abandon the other Barstows to deal with poverty and Jane's scandal on their own.

No. It was fortunate, merciful, that she recognized her…inclination before it could develop into something more dangerous. A mere "attraction" could be got over with diligent effort, which Adela fully intended on undertaking.

I won't dance with him again, if I can help it. Nor talk to him apart, she vowed sternly . In fact, this is the last time I will let myself dwell on him at all. Tonight, and no more.

Which might explain why it took Adela so very, very long to fall asleep.