Chapter 11

We needs must take the seeming best of bad.

— Samuel Daniel , The first fowre bookes of the civile warres betweene the two houses of Lancaster and Yorke (1595)

One part of Adela's vow was easy to keep, for a few days later Mrs. Terry called to announce the Children's Ball must be postponed.

"You will never believe what Denver has done, Mrs. Barstow," the rector's wife sighed, even as she shook her head in amusement. "Our young man was walking in the meadow with his nose in a book, and he wandered too near the Thames."

"Did he fall in, Mrs. Terry?"

"Of course he fell in! But that would be nothing—a mere dunking. No, Mrs. Barstow. Denver not only fell in, but he caught his boot in a tree root as he fell, so that one limb was held fast while the rest of him ended in the river. In short, he has broken his ankle, and there will be no dancing for him until November or December, the doctor Mr. Travers tells us. Ridiculous boy. Denver, that is, not the doctor."

Without glancing up from her needlework and leaving the other Barstows to gasp and sympathize, Adela ignored the disappointment darting through her and thought, Good. Very good. In that I am spared. Perhaps I might stay away from Perryfield for a few days altogether, until my feelings have…lessened.

She could not have everything her own way, however, for no sooner did Mrs. Terry depart than Mrs. Barstow turned from the window with a sigh.

"What is it, Mama?" asked Frances. "Were you so eager to see us all dance?"

"No, it is not that, though it would have given me pleasure, and I am sorry for poor Mr. Denver. No—it was that I wish we might hear from Jane. It has been weeks!"

Fifteen-year-old Frances inhaled swiftly and shot Adela a look which plainly said, You must tell her, Della!

Nor did the look escape their mother's notice. "What is it?" she demanded, her soft voice sharpening. "Do you know something?"

All eyes turned to Adela, even little Maria looking up from where she sat on the carpet, shaking a rattle for Bash.

Feeling her color drain, Adela tucked her needle in her sewing and smoothed it before laying it aside. "There was a letter, and I will show it to you, but I did not want to upset you. The good news—the very good news—is that they are indeed married. More worrying, however, was that Mr. Merritt's aunt was…not pleased to learn this. Not pleased at all. Jane reported that she and Mr. Merritt must think of other means to support themselves—"

Mrs. Barstow was already holding out an implacable hand for the letter, and, with a grimace, Adela produced it for her.

What a scene followed! Pained silence, exclamations, tears, questions, fruitless discussion. It was full half an hour before order was restored, and Adela feared the weariness and woe lining her mother's face would be even longer in the banishment.

"Can we—write to them, Adela, and tell them to come to us?" Mrs. Barstow suggested at last.

"We do not know where they are, Mama. We must wait to hear from them again."

"And where would we put them if they did come?" wondered Frances. "We are all of us on top of each other as it is. But perhaps Irving might build them some bunks, and they might sleep in the shed."

When Adela frowned at these unhelpful observations, her younger sister tried to make amends. "Or they might live at Perryfield! Lord Dere said he would be glad to host our guests."

"Frances," said Sarah, prodding Bash with the toe of her slipper to make him chuckle, "we could hardly expect Lord Dere to house permanent family members for us."

"True," Frances conceded, "and suppose Jane had a baby every year! Soon Perryfield would be fuller of Merritts than Deres."

Here Adela cleared her throat loudly and redoubled her frown, and Frances finally fell silent.

"Mama," Adela said, threading her way through the parlor furniture to put an arm about Mrs. Barstow's waist, "I fear that, even if Roger Merritt could submit to live as a mere adjunct to our family, dependent on Lord Dere and Perryfield for everything, Mrs. Markham Dere would never allow it."

For a moment Mrs. Barstow shut her eyes, her head lowering in defeat. "I know. You are right. A spirited man like Roger Merritt would never be persuaded; nor would Mrs. Dere ever permit it. But what will become of them? Could we ask Lord Dere for the loan of a sum to send them?"

Adela shrank from this suggestion. "Better just to call it a ‘gift,' Mama, for who could say when or if it would ever be repaid? No doubt the baron would be willing, but there we find the same difficulties. For Lord Dere would have to keep it a secret from his niece, lest she object—vehemently—and I'm afraid it is Mrs. Dere who ‘wears the breeches' at Perryfield."

None present bothered to argue the point with her, and they sat some minutes in miserable contemplation, with no other sound than Bash's mirth, as Poppet had wandered near enough to have his tail tugged.

When the silence was broken at last, it was little Maria who spoke. She had been sucking on her finger, which Outlaw had clawed, and petting the cat with her free hand, and she said idly, "Maybe Mr. Weatherill could help. Gordy says Mr. Weatherill is an excellent fellow."

"Mr. Weatherill's excellence is neither here nor there," returned Adela in a high voice. "For what could he do for us? He hasn't any money himself nor a home to offer them."

"He is from London, though," Sarah observed. "And because he has no money he might know of places where the poorer sort live or where they might seek work—"

"Yes! Yes!" cried Mrs. Barstow, seizing at this. "That is very true, Sarah. And what a clever proposal, my sweet Maria. Gordy does admire Mr. Weatherill, and so do I myself, I daresay, for he seems like a worthy young man. Surely we could ask him in deepest confidence…?"

"He would have no reason to betray us," continued Sarah. "And suppose, by some glorious coincidence, Mr. Weatherill's acquaintances knew of Roger Merritt! We lose nothing by asking, Mrs. Barstow."

Shaking free from Adela's arm, Mrs. Barstow went at once to the escritoire. "I will write a note to Mr. Weatherill asking him to call at his convenience, and you may give it to him when you fetch Gordon this afternoon, Della."

"But I don't fetch Gordon anymore," Adela protested feebly.

Her mother raised an eyebrow. "You may fetch him today. Perhaps, if he is not occupied, Mr. Weatherill might even return with you! Oh, Della, I know you think it unlikely we will learn much, but after weeks of being unable to do or say anything—"

"Yes, Mama," she said, resigning herself. "I will take it."

"I had better go with you," Frances announced when it was nearly two o'clock. "Not only to safeguard your reputation, but also to distract Mrs. Dere if she's lurking about."

And to keep me from having to speak to Mr. Weatherill alone , Adela added in her head as they tied on their bonnets. She had successfully avoided him since the Sunday dinner, though it meant she had seen little of Lord Dere either. The one morning she and Sarah came to practice on the pianoforte, Lord Dere had been meeting with his steward. The time lost! Each day, each hour which passed was squandered, Adela agonized for the hundredth time. She must, must overcome this unwanted, ridiculous tendre for Mr. Weatherill so that she might make the most of each opportunity. As it was, she had arrears of unfulfilled plans for pleasing the baron.

But luck was against Adela when Wood admitted them. Not only was there no sign of the baron, but there was Mrs. Dere crossing the entry hall like a watchdog, and Frances had to bounce in, calling, "How fortunate for me, Mrs. Dere! Della and I have come for Gordon, but I hoped I might see you and ask you to show me that new music you ordered, if you are not busy."

"I would be glad to. Come with me, Miss Frances. And Miss Barstow, if you would mention to Peter—and to Gordon, of course—that Cook has made his favorite treacle cake…?"

That left Adela to climb to the second floor alone, extracting her mother's note from her sleeve as she went.

The door to the schoolroom stood open, so that Gordon's voice carried to his sister's ears. "—Della's Mr. Liddell harped on him, that's all I know, but I'll still try him, if you like."

Her hand flying to her mouth, she halted, the note fluttering from her fingers.

"‘Della's Mr. Liddell'?" repeated Mr. Weatherill. " Has Miss Barstow a Mr. Liddell?"

"Yes," answered Gordy stoutly. "Or she used to. Papa's old curate. Frances said he would marry Della, but he married someone else instead."

A pause followed in which Adela hardly dared to breathe, and then Mr. Weatherill rejoined, "That must have been a disappointment to you all."

"Nobody cried about it," the boy answered, doubtless with a shrug. "But then again Della never cries. The only time I've ever seen her cry was the morning we left Twyford, but that was because my sister J—"

"Gordy!" shrieked Adela, scrambling up the remaining steps, only to have to scramble back down to retrieve the fallen note. "Gordy, I'm here to fetch you!" Her panic was ridiculous, in retrospect, since she held in her hand the invitation to come and learn about Jane's elopement, but—oh!—far better that Mr. Weatherill hear it in Mrs. Barstow's appealing tones than that Gordy drop the news like a cannonball upon him.

The next moment Mr. Weatherill was in the doorway, regarding her with some amazement as she scrabbled at the step for the paper, cheeks pink and manner flustered. And every good vow Adela had made to herself fell to the ground like ripe fruit when the tree was shaken, for she gulped and gabbled and required three attempts to take the note securely in hand.

Gordon and Peter appeared to each side of their tutor, Gordon not looking at all conscious for having been speaking of his sister's failed amours .

"Oh, say, Della. What are you doing here? You haven't fetched me in ever so long."

"I'm fetching you today," she said lamely, glad to have someone to look at, so perhaps Mr. Weatherill might miraculously overlook her confusion. "Are the lessons not yet finished?"

"They are," Weatherill answered the top of her head, for Adela still hovered two steps below. If she had been able to meet his eyes, she would have remarked his own discomfiture— Gracious, had Miss Barstow overheard him asking about her former beau?

"Very well."

Adela would rather Peter Dere not know about Mrs. Barstow's note—only look how young boys could not be trusted to keep mum!—but neither did she want both boys to decamp at once, leaving her alone with Mr. Weatherill.

She compromised. "Er—Peter—Mrs. Dere asked me to say that Cook has something for you in the kitchen."

"Only for Peter?" protested Gordy, outraged. "Cook said I might come for a treat every day, if I liked!"

Adela stifled a groan. So much for that.

"Come on, then," Peter urged, and the boys bolted past Adela down the stairs, calling their good-byes to their tutor over their shoulders.

Clearing her throat, Adela gathered her courage in both hands and regarded Mr. Weatherill's left ear. Or more specifically at the waving lock of red-brown hair covering the top of his left ear. Really a lovely shade of hair. One a girl would sell her soul for.

Another throat clearing. "Right. Sir—my mother Mrs. Barstow has a message for you."

"A message for me?" he echoed. "From Mrs. Barstow?"

"Yes, and there you are." Adela thrust the paper at him as an assassin might thrust a dagger between his ribs, and his hand came up instinctively in defense. Which only led to her fingers colliding and tangling with his as the note crumpled between them.

Fearing she would combust with mortification at this latest awkwardness, Adela did not even attempt to apologize and simply fled.

Weatherill watched her go, uncertain if her retreating steps or his own hammering heart were responsible for the thumping in his ears. Either way, he waited for it to die away before sinking to sit on the landing.

"You idiot, Weatherill," he muttered. "Your own fault for asking about the faithless curate." He was almost positive Miss Barstow had heard him, judging by her unease and abruptness. What bad luck that she should be hovering within earshot! She, whom he had hardly seen since he had danced with her.

He deserved to be caught, he supposed, because it was not the first time he had encouraged Gordon to talk of his sister. Indeed, under the guise of lessons, he had gleaned a morsel here and a morsel there about Miss Barstow (and about the other Barstows and Mrs. Markham Dere, for that matter, but with them Weatherill admittedly did not mull over each titbit, wondering whether the information was truth or fancy). Collected discoveries included Miss Barstow's favorite color (blue); Miss Barstow's preferred biscuit (ginger); Miss Barstow's favorite musician (Haydn, or perhaps Pleyel); whether Miss Barstow rode (no); and whether Miss Barstow read aloud to the family (usually it was the younger Mrs. Barstow who read to them). Deeper questions required more maneuvering on Weatherill's part, and he had not been successful. Touching on the topic of how the Barstows liked Iffley, for example, yielded only: "Maria and I love it!" Nor had he asked questions about the lost Barstow men, not wanting to sadden Gordon, though he would have liked to know more there.

An honorable, disinterested man would have overlooked Gordon's mention of this Liddell person, but where Miss Barstow was concerned, Gerard seemed to be discovering more character flaws in himself every day.

A door opened further along the passage, and Weatherill rose hastily, nodding at the chambermaid who appeared before slipping back into the schoolroom. Going to the window, he smoothed out the crushed note and slid it open. The message was brief, cryptic. A simple request: if he would call on Mrs. Barstow at his convenience any time in the coming days, to be consulted on a confidential matter, she would be deeply appreciative.

Considering how Weatherill had been unable to banish Miss Barstow from his thoughts and how he had been grasping at petty scraps of knowledge about her, it was impossible that he should resist this summons. Why not now? Now was convenient, even if he arrived on Miss Barstow's and Gordon's heels.

He had not accounted, however, for Miss Barstow having to gather her brother from the kitchen and Miss Frances from the drawing room, so that, by the time Gerard straightened the schoolroom, clapped his hat upon his head, and hastened down the stairs, the Barstows were but fifty yards ahead of him down the drive.

At once Weatherill slowed his pace and was on the point of veering into the nearby trees when Gordy spied something and retraced his steps to inspect it more closely. The boy straightened and hallooed, waving. "Mr. Weatherill! Come look at this!"

There was nothing for it but to comply, and Weatherill advanced with as nonchalant air as he could muster.

"Good afternoon again," he said, adding a half bow toward Miss Frances. "I—thought I would walk into the village and perhaps call at the cottage."

The younger sister sucked in a breath and glanced at the older, but Miss Barstow gave only a nod. After a hesitation, Weatherill offered an arm to each lady, which Miss Frances took readily enough. Miss Barstow was about to refuse when Gordy said, "See what I found, Della! Do you want to keep it to show the baron?" Opening his hands, he revealed a green little meadow grasshopper, which instantly saw its chance for freedom and leaped—onto Miss Barstow's skirts. With a shrill which would have done credit to a banshee, Adela gave a corresponding leap backward, colliding forcefully with Weatherill's chest. Miss Frances' sympathetic screech drowned the whoof! compelled from him, and the threesome tumbled to the ground like so many ivory dominoes.

The grasshopper hopped away.

"Della! Look what you've done!" accused her brother, dancing off in vain pursuit.

"Yes, Della," grumbled Miss Frances, striving to untangle herself. "Look what you've done."

With Miss Barstow sprawled across him, bonnet askew and head resting on his shoulder, Weatherill could not resist: "Yes, Della—look what you've done."

"I-I beg your pardon," she panted, too horror-stricken to note his effrontery. Struggling up required pressing off of him with one merciless elbow while using her other hand to hold her short black lace cloak modestly in place.

"Say nothing of it," he coughed, sitting up and rubbing the diaphragm she had distended. "I know how your delight carries you away whenever you see an insect."

This, too, was allowed to pass without remark, though it must be said that Gordon stifled a giggle and even Frances pressed her lips together as the tutor assisted her up.

"Off we go now," announced Miss Barstow, not meeting anyone's eyes. Her voice was tight and businesslike, as if knocking people to the ground were one of those commonplace nuisances one must expect in man's fallen condition.

After that, Weatherill could not have offered his arm to her again without fairly galloping alongside, so astonishing a pace did she set, her siblings tearing after her, and he himself having to take long strides to keep up. Before they reached the Tree Inn, Gerard decided the more courteous thing to do would be to let the Barstows arrive at Iffley Cottage before he did, so he slowed accordingly.

"Mr. Weatherill is coming to call, Mama!" shouted Gordon, bursting through the cottage door.

"Goodness me, what noise," scolded the maid Reed. "Mrs. Markham Dere never let Peter roar like that." The Barstows were already too used to such observations to heed this one, however, and Reed soon had her hands full with the ladies' bonnets and with curtseying to the visitor coming up the walk.

It had been determined beforehand (and not entirely to everyone's satisfaction) that when Mr. Weatherill came to call, only Mrs. Barstow, Sarah, and Adela would be present. Therefore, with only the smallest pout, Frances took Bash from his mother's arms and herded Maria and Gordon to the back parlor for a game of Casino.

"Mr. Weatherill, thank you for coming," Mrs. Barstow greeted him, after Reed took his hat as well. "Won't you sit down? Would you like some tea? We have started a batch of elderberry wine, but I'm afraid it's not ready yet."

"Thank you, but no. I—er—hope the day finds you all well?"

Mrs. Barstow made the usual responses and asked the usual questions without paying much attention to them. Indeed, throughout this exchange of courtesies she mindlessly pulled her handkerchief through her hand over and over. Sarah was not much better, embroidering a leaf in the wrong place on Bash's gown which would have to be picked out later. And Adela—after what had already passed that afternoon, Adela would have gladly postponed this moment to another day.

But, no, here it was. And while her mother would begin the business, it was understood that Adela would be her lieutenant, taking over altogether if Mrs. Barstow faltered.

It had been weeks since the Barstows removed to Iffley. Weeks since they had seen Jane. And Adela was beginning to think she might soon have to compromise Lord Dere if she were going to make any progress in securing her family's situation. All she seemed to have accomplished in all these weeks was to develop an inconvenient—nay, impossible —liking for someone who could not help them at all.

Unless he could.