Chapter 12

He's as true as Steell to his Word.

— John Dunton , The life and errors of John Dunton late citizen of London (1705)

"Mr. Weatherill," said Adela, when her mother trailed into silence. "You will be wondering why we—why my mother—asked to speak with you."

"I am happy to call at Iffley Cottage in any event," he answered.

"Yes. Thank you. Well. We will not beat about the bush, sir, but come right to it." Here Adela looked at Mrs. Barstow, who gave her handkerchief another, harder, wring.

Weatherill did his best to appear expectant, rather than devoured by curiosity-tinged-with-dread. Were they not pleased with Gordon's progress? Had the boy let slip his tutor's unnatural inquisitiveness about—the family in general and Miss Barstow in particular?

"Mr. Weatherill," Mrs. Barstow began with a visible effort, "you will recall that I have one daughter whom you have not met."

"Yes, I do recall. Though I cannot remember her married name, I'm afraid."

"Mrs. Merritt," replied the older woman softly. "Her name is Mrs. Roger Merritt."

"Ah, yes."

Another pause followed. Another wring of the handkerchief. Another misplaced stitch.

"Have you—er—heard from Mrs. Merritt?" he asked, hoping to jog things along.

"Yes, we have. She is married now."

His brows lifted a trace at this repetition, and Mrs. Barstow threw a stricken look at her daughter. With a silent sigh, Adela braced herself, sitting forward in her chair.

"Jane is married," Adela took up the thread, "and we have learned she and Roger are living in London. Or planning to live in London." Intent on telling the whole sorry tale before her courage leaked away, Adela trained her gaze on the carved scroll of the armchair in which Mr. Weatherill sat and thus failed to notice how he stiffened at her words.

"I'm afraid she wrote to us without mentioning where we might direct our own letter when they reached town—most likely because they did not yet know themselves," Adela continued. "You see—they had hoped to live in Shropshire where Mr. Merritt has an aunt, but—that proved unfeasible. Mr. Weatherill, the fact is, they haven't much money—any money, really—and probably ought not to have married, but it is done, and they intend to make the best of it."

"You know young love," spoke up Mrs. Barstow, almost pleading. "How impatient and sometimes unmanageable it is."

Both Weatherill and Adela colored at this interposition and suddenly found various items in the surrounding furnishings worth inspecting. From her seat on the sofa, a sigh escaped Sarah as she traced her embroidery with a fingertip. Yes, that was exactly how her Sebastian had been when he courted her: impatient, ardent. His leave was only so long—why should they wait? But Sarah had not needed to "manage" him, being just as willing as he to hurl herself into marriage.

Fearing she had drawn attention, Sarah swallowed hard and glanced around, hoping her sigh had gone unremarked.

It had.

And judging by the look she caught fleeting across Adela's face—a look Sarah Barstow had certainly never seen there before —Sebastian Barstow's courtship style had been the furthest thing from her sister-in-law's mind.

"In any event," Adela resumed, "Jane and Roger were impatient and unmanageable, and the deed is done. To make a long story short, sir, they are poor, and we are…anxious for them."

"I see. But—if I might ask, why do you tell me these things?"

Mother and daughter shared a glance.

"Mr. Weatherill, I need hardly say we depend upon your confidence in this," Mrs. Barstow murmured, now winding her abused handkerchief about her hand as if she were bandaging it.

"You have it," he assured her at once.

Though they had not shared the shame of the elopement, they had told Mr. Weatherill the worst of what remained, and he had taken it as calmly as they could hope. Adela therefore plunged ahead. "It is this," she said. "We wondered if you, sir, having come from London and having London acquaintances and—and correspondents and so forth—if you might know of likely inns or places in town they might seek out, or people who might know where a penniless man might go to find work or—or amusement. Roger Merritt is—a lively sort."

Even as she spoke, that familiar shadow returned to his eyes, and although he did not stir, Adela sensed again his rapid inner retreat. As if to catch him before he escaped, she babbled on: "We might send a letter to the general post office, of course, but how likely would it be that Jane would go there to ask for it? Oh, Mr. Weatherill—we do not demand the names of your acquaintances or—or—or need to know why or how you would know certain places or such. We only ask that you…call upon your knowledge."

There was a long silence while Weatherill contemplated the carpet.

As it stretched, the ladies could hardly bear it. They had gone too far. Asked too much. Burdening him with their confidence and now reminding him of things he preferred, for whatever reasons, to forget.

Adela saw her mother's lips part, but she gave her a quick shake of the head. No. Let him consider.

It served, for at last Weatherill asked, "Do you wish to have them come to Iffley?"

Mrs. Barstow sagged with relief. " I do," she said. "But Della says Roger would never consent to it, and no doubt she is right."

"We wish them to know they are welcome, at least," Adela conceded. "Or—Jane is, if Roger refuses to come or if—he cannot support them both."

He seemed to understand what was unspoken—the flaws in Roger Merritt's character which caused the family such fear—because his mouth tightened, and he ran a rapid hand through the back of his hair. "I understand," he said. "Yes. I am…flattered you would consult me, and I am willing to write to my—acquaintances, though I should warn you they are not particularly numerous or—apt to get about much in town."

"Thank you! Thank you!" Mrs. Barstow cried, looking as if she wanted to hug him. And the tentative smile Adela gave him did much to smother his misgivings.

Weatherill could have kicked himself for spoiling it the next moment when he said, "But, if you will pardon me asking, have you thought to speak of this to the baron?"

Adela's smile vanished and she bristled. But it had been an honest, genuine question, and he held up his palms to indicate as much.

"Not yet," she admitted. "Because he has already…done so much for us, as you know."

And because you don't want to spoil your chances, he thought, bitterness rising. He was to jeopardize his position at Perryfield, so that she need not jeopardize her own? But this wasn't fair, he supposed. When Miss Barstow asked him to take pen in hand, she did not know the price of her request.

"But I would have asked Lord Dere," Adela insisted, hoping she was speaking the truth. She gripped the arms of her chair so tightly that her nails dug tiny crescents in the varnish. " We would have, if not for the likelihood that word of it would reach Mrs. Markham Dere. If Mrs. Dere were to learn of Jane's difficulties—" she broke off, making a helpless gesture of her own.

"Yes, of course," he agreed dryly. "I understand."

She softened another inch. "So you see why we would like to try this first. If the baron and Mrs. Dere must learn of Jane's trials, they must. But if it is at all possible to pursue this avenue discreetly…"

"I do indeed have a few acquaintances still in town," he replied, as if the majority of people he had known left London at the same time he did.

"Your former employer Mr. Keele?" Mrs. Barstow suggested.

"And perhaps families of your former pupils?" put in Sarah.

To this Weatherill made an indistinct sound in his throat which may or may not have been affirmative, and from sheer relief and gratitude Adela hurried to direct the conversation away from his no-thoroughfare. "We will appreciate any efforts you make, sir, and content ourselves with however much or little you learn. Thank you. And now, speaking of pupils, what did you think of Gordy's lines? He took pains to learn them."

A quarter of an hour later Weatherill took his leave, and the three women held a short conference before re-admitting the younger Barstows.

"Adela, why did you not let him tell us who he would write to?" asked her mother.

"Because he didn't want to tell us, Mama. Have you not seen? He always grows rather reserved when one refers to his London life or connections."

"If she did not notice," Sarah said slyly, "it might be because she has not spent as much time studying him."

Adela would have scoffed at this, except it proved impossible. "He is a new acquaintance," she said, stiff as stiff could be. "All new acquaintances are of interest."

Sarah smiled as she began to pull out the straying embroidery stitches. "Indeed. But few new acquaintances are of such interest as handsome young gentlemen."

"Sarah, don't tease," chided her mother-in-law, chuckling. But she ceased abruptly when she turned to share the joke with her daughter. "Why, Della! You're red as a poppy!"

"Pooh."

"But—can it be so?" breathed Mrs. Barstow. "Do you like the young man? He is amiable, courteous and—we hope—trustworthy—and certainly Gordy is already as fond of him as I could wish, but I don't believe he has a penny—"

"Pooh," said Adela again. "One may admire a young man for being handsome, especially now that he is more smartly dressed, without being in love with him."

"Too right," agreed Sarah. "But it is also true that one may admire a young man for being handsome even more when one is in love with him."

"Oh, dear," worried Mrs. Barstow. "Poor Della. First Mr. Liddell, and now this! But you have too good a head on your shoulders to lose your heart a second time to a man who cannot afford to marry."

"I didn't lose my heart to Mr. Liddell!" protested Adela. "I only thought I could like him, if I chose to."

"Then you admit you've lost your heart to Mr. Weatherill?" Sarah asked innocently.

"What? I—no! I admit nothing of the kind."

Mrs. Barstow was shaking her head mournfully. "Darling Della, I know you are no Jane, and that you would never consider—"

"I am no Jane, and I would never consider doing anything such as Jane did," interrupted Adela, raising a peremptory hand, though her voice shook a little. "In fact, quite the opposite. We have enough burdens, Mama. I do not intend to add to them."

She was swept into an embrace which would have been comforting, had Sarah not been looking on with a skeptical lift of one eyebrow and had not Adela herself felt contrarily low. It was not as if Mr. Weatherill were going to ask her to run away with him, or even that there was any danger of him returning her feelings. It was just that, even if were unexpectedly to do either of those things, Adela could not be Jane. Jane had been Jane, and it might yet break her family. Adela had no choice but to be Adela.

Sensible, dependable, resourceful Adela.

"A letter has come for you at last, Mr. Weatherill," said Mrs. Lamb when he poked his head in at the Tree Inn on his way back to Perryfield. "A pleasure, finally, to hear from your London friends."

"Mm. Thank you." He fished the necessary coins from his pocket and laid them on the counter, wishing the postmistress-tapstress might go back to cleaning the bar, but she continued to watch him eagerly through her spectacles.

He held up the missive as he backed away. "From my former employer. Thank you, again."

"Imagine coming from a place so big as London and getting so few letters! Why, the Barstows hail from piddling Twyford, and they hear from more people than you do, sir."

He fended this off with a forced laugh. "Charming ladies like the Barstows will always have more friends than a bachelor schoolmaster. Good day to you, Mrs. Lamb."

There was one benefit from the timing of Keele's letter, however, Gerard realized: when he sent his reply, Mrs. Lamb would think nothing of it. Whereas, if he had been the first to write, doubtless she would have peppered him with questions.

Keele's message was brief. He asked about Weatherill's new situation and followed with news of those who might interest him, their births, deaths, liberations from debtor's prison, unfortunate returns. He wrote of former pupils; Mrs. Bundicomb, who had looked after Susanna; newcomers to the Fleet—and Rioting Rob.

"The senior Mr. Weatherill has been unwell, I am sorry to say. Since your departure he has grown close and surly, displaying less and less of the good cheer which made him so popular a man. Others begin to avoid him because he grows violent on occasion, but, as you know, he can be generous in the taproom, and there are sadly always new souls to befriend. I tell you these things only for your knowledge, not to urge your return or even that you should write to him. We have discussed many times my feelings on the matter. It is past time that you live as the free man you are." The letter was signed, "With God's blessings, Wm Keele."

His father surly? Violent? Gerard could hardly believe it, Rob Weatherill being with others than his own family always loud, always robust, always hail fellow well met.

Keele anticipated his former pupil and assistant's response correctly, for Gerard's first instinct was to set out at once for London. Was his father changed because he had lost both his children?

But—going to London—how could he go to London, so soon after his removal to Oxfordshire? How would he possibly explain it to Mrs. Dere?

He could not. Perhaps if his father had been dying, but even that would lead to questions…and consequences.

Going to London now might mean giving up his new position. His new life. And Miss Barstow.

Weatherill's pace increased, but he veered off the lane into the adjoining field, where no one but a few sheep would bother him.

"Miss Barstow isn't yours to give up," he muttered, glaring at one of the sheep, who merely chewed and returned his gaze, unruffled. "She asks this favor of you out of desperation, not adoration ."

"But she asks it of me, nevertheless," retorted some irrepressible imp in his head. "And not of the vaunted, wealthy, peerless peer Lord Dere."

"Lord Dere, whom she plans on marrying, if she can manage it."

"And suppose she can't?" asked the imp. "What will she do then? She lives buried in Iffley, portionless, encumbered with too many family members who all rely on her. Who is she to marry if she fails in her efforts to ensnare the baron? You might as well have her, then."

"Me? She may be portionless, but she is respectable."

"So were your grandparents. All respectable. Unexceptionable."

"Yes, they might have been, but my father is another story—! Would anyone stoop to marrying the son of a Fleet debtor?"

"You needn't mention that straight away, you fool. If ever. Why, the moment you confess that, you will lose your position, and then there will be no engagement, not even in ten years, when you can afford a hovel of your own."

Ten years!

"She is too lovely to be unclaimed all that time," he argued with himself. "Even if I could keep the truth from her so long. Too lovely and intelligent and courageous. You see how she is the rock of her family. And how she can play and dance! Many a man—any man—would overlook her lack of fortune."

"Stuff," said the imp. "You're just besotted. If you're so afraid she'll be snatched up, ask her for a long engagement."

Weatherill halted mid-stride, mindlessly crumpling and uncrumpling Keele's letter. Suppose he were to woo her? Once he presented her sister's whereabouts on a platter, to tears and acclaim, and her heart was softened by gratitude? Yes. He would write to Keele and to his father. He would tug two of the many strands which composed the spiderweb of the Fleet, setting the whole thing vibrating, each strand attached to countless other branches throughout the capital. Someone, somewhere would know of this Roger Merritt and his bride. There was no squalid quarter of the city which could not be touched in this way.

Unsettled by the man standing like a statue in their field, the sheep trotted away, but Weatherill hardly noticed.

Yes. He would write his letters that very afternoon—and commence his wooing. Not that he had any idea how to go about it.

"To begin with, stop teasing her about Lord Dere," advised the imp. "It only makes you look like a jealous fool."

"But I am a jealous fool," sighed Gerard. "Other than my youth and industry, the baron has far the better hand. A peerage, wealth—he's not even villainous, that I might despise him."

No imp was necessary, however, to counter these arguments. Weatherill remembered how others had responded at church, the first time he wore his new clothing. Their interest in him. Their willingness to accept him as one of their rank because he was good-looking and now decently dressed. He thought as well of Mrs. Markham Dere's sway at Perryfield. Her high-handed treatment of Lord Dere could not do otherwise than diminish him in the world's esteem. In Miss Barstow's esteem.

Could it be done? Could he make himself agreeable enough to her that she would give up her schemes? She did not want the Deres to know of her sister's difficulties, but if Gerard assisted the Barstows in hiding this, she might not be so desperate to secure their situation. She might then be willing to consider other qualities in a possible husband.

"What about that curate Liddell?" spoke up the imp.

But Weatherill frowned him down. "What about him? If he abandoned her to pursue someone else, he wasn't worthy of her. Moreover, if she is willing to sacrifice herself on the altar of family security, she is clearly not pining with love for the man."

Anyone who might have observed Gerard Weatherill muttering to himself that afternoon would surely have gone away convinced the new Perryfield tutor was mad, but had they been miraculously transported to the Fleet's flights, galleys, or racket-ground, they would have seen many, many others with the same habit. Men pacing up and down, consulting only themselves—a habit born of walls, worry, and wretchedness.