Chapter 13

The thick'nd Skie Like a dark Ceeling stood; down rush'd theRainImpetuous.

— Milton , Paradise Lost, xi.743 (1667)

Nature conspired against the best-laid plans of both Adela and Weatherill in the period which followed, for the heavens opened, pouring forth day after day of dreary rain. Rain which inspired Lord Dere to send the barouche for Gordon every morning, that he and his sisters be "spared the walk to Perryfield," and rain which kept everyone within doors.

"Mr. Weatherill would surely send a note or call upon us, if he had heard anything," Mrs. Barstow said to Sarah and Adela after breakfast. Her eyes turned to the streaming windowpanes, against which a branch full of blackening leaves lashed.

"I'm sure he would," Sarah reassured her. "I don't envy the post, driving in such weather. It's more like Shrovetide out there than Michaelmas!"

"He would need to write to whoever his correspondents are, and then they would need to make inquiries, perhaps, and then reply to him," Adela said, having thought it through a hundred times. "And Jane and Roger's whereabouts would not be a pressing matter to strangers, of course."

"It would all be nothing, if only Jane would write to us again," sighed her mother.

"I will walk to the Tree Inn and ask Mrs. Lamb if anything has come," Adela said.

"You'll be drenched and catch cold," spoke up Frances from where she was reading a book with her feet upon the fender. "And wouldn't Mrs. Lamb have sent word if there were something?"

"Still," insisted Adela. "It might have just arrived, and she may be too occupied to send word. I will wear my cloak and carry the umbrella."

Frances groaned. "I suppose that means I have to go, too. Can't you take Maria?"

"I don't want to go!" protested her younger sister. "Besides, Della set me at these writing exercises."

"No one needs to come with me," Adela said. "I could throw a rock at the Tree Inn from here. Though I may wander in the meadow to see how high the river is because I'm going mad with restlessness."

"Don't fall in like poor Denver," said Frances, going back to her book.

"But you'll come right back if there is a letter from Jane, won't you Della?" asked Mrs. Barstow.

"Certainly I will."

There was no letter from Jane.

"I would have sent my boy to the cottage if there had been," Mrs. Lamb told her. "But tell your mother not to fret. You know those new brides—heads too full of their husbands to remember their families. Wait a year, and she'll be writing to you all the time, I warrant."

Briefly Adela was tempted to ask if any letters had come for Mr. Weatherill. No doubt the chatty postmistress would tell her, but then Mrs. Lamb would also be just as certain to tell anyone else who cared to listen that Miss Barstow must have her eye on that Perryfield tutor, make no mistake, or why would she want to know if the handsome fellow had any London sweethearts writing to him?

No. Better not to ask. But what if any coveted replies had indeed arrived, and Mr. Weatherill did not come for them, preferring not to venture out in the muck? The Barstows would have to wait and wait, their nerves stretched thus.

Emerging from the inn, Adela opened her umbrella and squinted up at the low clouds still spilling their steady rain. No, he would not come in this weather.

With a sigh she turned aside from the road into Iffley Meadow, trudging through the squeaking and sucking grasses, the hem of her cloak darkening with the wet and dragging over the bent and defeated wildflowers. When she reached the river, she found it high and grey-brown after so many days of rain, the current running quickly. Her eyes traced its movement, charting its dilatory path in her mind and thinking of Jane somewhere near its end, where the Thames wound through the capital before spilling into the sea.

He was nearly upon her before she saw him.

"Mr. Weatherill!" gasped Adela, smothering a yelp of surprise. "Whatever are you doing here?"

"Is that you, Miss Barstow?" He made her a bow, letting the water stream from the brim of his hat. When he straightened, he was smiling, a smile she returned. "I am stretching my legs, as I like to do. Though conditions such as these make the Perryfield gallery more appealing. You were wiser than I, I see," he said, indicating her umbrella.

And he really did look quite forlorn because he had only his threadbare, shabby greatcoat, which might have shielded him in some places but which stuck damply to him in others.

"I went to the Tree Inn to see if Jane had written," Adela told him, reluctantly turning back toward the village. She could hardly stand in the rain in Iffley Meadow speaking to him. "But why aren't you teaching, sir?"

"You mean, why do I shirk my duties?" he asked, falling into step beside her.

Adela laughed. "Maybe that is indeed what I mean."

"Apparently some bigwig from the late Mr. Markham Dere's college at Oxford was calling upon the baron, and Mrs. Dere wanted him to sift poor Peter. Or, I should say, poor me , for I confess I had no desire to witness the result."

"If Peter is found wanting, you can hardly be to blame, sir," Adela defended him, "for it is only Michaelmas, which means you have had the teaching of him for scarcely six weeks."

"Thank you. Perhaps if I could trouble you to step over to Perryfield, you might say as much to this Head of House, or whoever he is?"

Raising her umbrella to look at him, Adela said boldly, "If I did, it would be only fair, considering the favor we Barstows asked of you . I—if you would permit me to ask, Mr. Weatherill, were you able to write to your friends in London?"

She thought if she surprised him she might slip under his guard, but he instantly drew himself up, his playful mood banished. "I did," he replied shortly. "And please assure Mrs. Barstow that, if I had received a response, I would have called at Iffley Cottage to make a report."

"Yes, so I told her," rejoined Adela meekly.

He grimaced, belatedly recalling his ten-year-engagement plan. If he wished to soften her, win her, he could not rebuff her whenever she asked quite natural questions, however uncomfortable they made him.

He tried again. "It was a delicate matter—making inquiries without…raising additional questions. Had I said anything like, ‘Run out at once and ask every person you see about Roger and Jane Merritt,' then my—friends—might have had a greater sense of urgency, but they would also have…talked a great deal more, if that makes sense."

"It does," Adela answered, her brow clearing. "It does, truly. We did not think of that. Thank you, Mr. Weatherill, for your discretion. Your explanation will help us to be more patient."

Flushing, he said, "Patience is one of those qualities which can only be learned in the doing, I'm afraid. But—speaking as someone who has often had to wait for things, the waiting can seem more bearable depending on the reward."

"‘Jacob served seven years for Rachel; and they seemed unto him but a few days, for the love he had to her,'" she murmured. But as soon as the words left her mouth she colored vividly. "That is, yes indeed. I'm sure you're right."

"Why are you blushing? I didn't know clergymen's daughters blushed over Biblical references."

"Then you know nothing about the Bible," she retorted. Lowering her umbrella, she gave it a twirl, sending out a spiral of drops. "What was your papa, Mr. Weatherill? Butcher, baker, candlestick maker? Or a schoolmaster like yourself?"

Though she kept her eyes on the umbrella, she noted the hesitation in his step before he plodged through a puddle. "He was—is—I suppose you might call him an adventurer."

This did not strike Adela as an actual profession one might claim, nor did it seem one Mr. Weatherill was inclined to expound upon. But she knew almost nothing of him and could only deny herself enough to shift her questioning a degree or two away. "You have the advantage of me," she said, "for, apart from Jane and her Roger, you met all the family I have in the world directly upon your arrival in Oxfordshire. You even met our family's pets, to your misfortune. But a man who travels alone may claim to be anyone and anything he pleases. Do you have siblings? Or—if that is too prying a question—I can ask instead if you had a pet of your own in your portmanteau."

She was teasing him, and Weatherill was torn between enjoying her interest and wishing himself very, very far away.

"No pets. But I—had a sister Susanna," he managed at last. "Younger by ten years. We were…very close. She died some months ago."

It was Adela's turn to plodge in a puddle as she halted. "Oh, dear me! Forgive me, Mr. Weatherill."

"What is there to forgive? I seem to remember blundering around the subject of your own late relations when we met."

They smiled ruefully at each other, and for a moment his hand lifted—to do what, he had no idea. Touch her hand? Her hair? Trace the line of her face? Press the firm rosiness of her lower lip?

"Still. I'm sorry," she said again. "Mr. Weatherill, one gets so very preoccupied with the difficulties in one's own life that one—that I, rather—forget that others too have their—their—"

His rueful smile metamorphosed into a wicked grin. "Their crosses to bear?"

He thought she would either laugh at this reminder of their earlier disagreement or smack him for it, and they frankly both sounded appealing. In both cases he knew what he would like to do in response: catch her by the shoulders and kiss her so hard she gasped for mercy.

Something of this must have shown in his eyes because her own widened, and she took a squelching step back.

"Goodness me," she whispered. Then, clearing her throat she said in a more normal voice, "How late it grows. My family will wonder what became of me. We are even to dine at Perryfield tonight, and just look at me!" Spreading her arms, she displayed her damp and muddy cloak.

"You look as if you were dragged up the Thames by a barge."

"And you, as if you were knocked into it by a passing post-chaise," she returned, both relieved and regretful to recover the easier tone of their conversation. This was why Mr. Weatherill was dangerous to be around. This was why he needed to be avoided.

"May I walk you back to Iffley Cottage?"

"No, thank you. If Mrs. Lamb were to see us, it would be all over the county by nightfall. But—perhaps we will see you at dinner, along with the daunting Oxford personage, if he stays that long?"

It was not Wednesday, but Gerard fully intended on appearing at table whenever the Barstows came. With another bow of acknowledgement and another humorous stream of rain tipping from his hat brim to the ground, he strode away.

The daunting Oxford personage turned out to be precisely that, being a tall man whose countenance was marked with a strong nose and penetrating dark gaze, but this gaze barely brushed over the Barstow ladies upon their arrival.

"Come, come, my dear Barstows," urged Lord Dere. "You must take the seats nearest the fire."

"Thank you, sir," Mrs. Barstow answered, "but your coachmen kept us quite warm and dry, and the rain is not as heavy as this morning."

"This is Mr. Eveleigh," Mrs. Dere announced, her handsome bosom swelling with satisfaction. "Provost of Oriel College and prebendary of Rochester Cathedral. His wife Dorothy was a school friend of mine. You find us discussing the academic standards at Oxford, which Mr. Eveleigh tells us are sadly lacking."

The introductions performed, the Barstows, which this evening included Mrs. Barstow, Sarah, Adela, and Frances, politely chose seats while Mr. Eveleigh took up the monologue their coming had interrupted. Pinning a pleasant expression to her face, Adela listened for a minute or two before seeing her participation would not be required and allowing her mind to wander free. But where her mind went, her eyes shortly followed, and she ventured a peep at Mr. Weatherill, who had chosen a chair where he might converse with the guest if called upon but otherwise not obtrude his presence on the company. Though the tutor was attending Eveleigh's speech, he must have felt Adela's glance, for his eyes flicked to meet hers, and a prickle ran through her. At once she returned her attention to the provost's soliloquy: "…Found that conversation improved in the Oriel common room," he intoned, "after the introduction of the tea-chest. Too many common rooms are mere excuses for excessive drinking, to my mind. Consider All Souls. They boast the best port in Oxford and toss off four bottles of it a day, but how this contributes to the advance of knowledge is anyone's guess…"

Mrs. Dere made affable murmurs of outrage and agreement, while Adela's mind and gaze drifted away once more. This time she looked toward the baron, silver-haired and sedate in his favorite armchair. She had not seen him in days and thought, with a little pang, that he appeared older than she remembered. Not unwell, but older. Could it be because her mind and eyes had been so full of Mr. Weatherill that the baron suffered by comparison? She could not, could not let things go on as they were. Suppose Mr. Weatherill's friends had no news to impart? Would Adela simply let matters drift, to land where and how they may? Nursing her useless, reprehensible tendre, instead of doing what she must to remedy matters? Here she had let days go by, all for a little rain. Yes, Lord Dere sending the coach had taken away walking Gordy to Perryfield, but she ought to have climbed into the carriage with him, on the excuse of going to practice her music!

You swear you have committed to this, Adela Barstow, but your actions say otherwise.

Perhaps it was the intensity of her regard which attracted the baron's notice because, like Mr. Weatherill, he too looked over, but the tremor which rippled through her then was altogether different from the one a few minutes earlier. This one, she guessed, was akin to what Poppet felt when discovered chewing Mrs. Barstow's slipper.

Whatever her expression, however, Lord Dere only gave his usual kindly smile, which Adela tried to return before tearing her eyes away once more and fixing them on Mr. Eveleigh's wagging chin.

"What say you, Mr. Weatherill?" the provost asked, turning for the first time to the tutor. "Mrs. Dere tells me you received a private education from an Oxford scholar but never yourself matriculated."

"That is true, sir. I was taught by Mr. William Keele of Exeter College." Perhaps it was the sheer repetition of it, but Weatherill thought this was the best he had done yet. He had neither fidgeted nor colored. But he hoped Eveleigh would not prove too inquisitive.

"Exeter, eh? Mr. Keele must have hailed from Devon or Cornwall, then."

"Devon, I believe."

"But his school is in London? Or perhaps I should say was, if he has retired."

Now Weatherill shifted in his seat and felt his face heating. He had congratulated himself too soon. "Yes," he replied quickly. "London. And—he has not retired. In any event, I daresay he would agree with your opinion about both the decline of academic standards and the excessive drinking at Oxford—or at Exeter College, at least."

The ruse succeeded, for Eveleigh was recalled at once to his hobby horse. Dropping the subject of Keele and the London school, he repeated a portion of what he had already said before questioning Weatherill on his teaching philosophy and methods with Peter and Gordon.

"Hm. Excellent. Very promising, young man. Mrs. Dere, allow me to commend your decision to educate your son privately. I cannot say I have been overmuch pleased with the pupils who come to us from the local schools. They might even be the most indolent and bibulous of the lot, having imbibed Oxford ways, so to speak, from their tender years."

Adela could not help grinning. "Sir, if you have met our rector's wife Mrs. Terry, you will find someone who shares your exact opinion. She speaks of Oxford as a hot-bed of mischief, when it comes to forming young men's characters."

Mrs. Markham Dere drew herself up at this interposition, not so much for the sentiment expressed, but rather because she thought it most forward of Miss Barstow to accost the provost when no one had been addressing her. Nor did her mother Mrs. Barstow rein her in with an arched brow or a touch of the hand—the widow actually smiled in agreement! Hopeless. If only the impertinent girl were more like her younger sister Frances, who sat primly, hands folded in her lap, as if butter wouldn't melt in her mouth. And see how Miss Frances had the grace to look embarrassed for her sister! Miss Frances threw Mrs. Dere a pained glance and then elbowed her older sister, both measures which did much to smooth the older woman's ruffled feathers.

As for Mr. Eveleigh, his umbrage equaled Mrs. Dere's, and after making no more response than a tight smile and vague sound in his throat, he turned pointedly to the baron. "One day I should like to meet the rector of St. Mary the Virgin. Terry…former fellow of Christ Church, was he not?"

Adela could have blessed Lord Dere when he replied, "Indeed, Christ Church. But Terry is a man of peace. I believe Miss Barstow is correct in calling Mrs. Terry your greater ally. If she were present, she would doubtless second many of your opinions on the decline of Oxford with a hearty ‘hear him!' and perhaps a thump on the table."

With the baron taking Miss Barstow's side Eveleigh was obliged to retreat, but he fired a parting shot: "Dear me. Mrs. Terry must be quite the Amazon. As I often quote to my daughter Jane, ‘A continual dropping in a very rainy day and a contentious woman are alike.'"

A trilling laugh from Mrs. Dere met this. "How very apt, sir, with the weather we are having! But surely your dear, dear Jane needs no such reminder. What a daughter to be proud of. If I had ever been blessed with a girl, I would have wanted her to be just like your Jane. Dorothy writes to me that she has never given her family a moment's distress. An ‘angel dropped to earth,' she calls her."

Little Jane Eveleigh might never have given her parents a moment's distress, but her name and the insistence on her perfections had quite the opposite effect on the Barstows. Suddenly they were all to be found staring at the carpet or their hands or a corner of the room. Mrs. Barstow began to drag her handkerchief agitatedly through her clenched fist, and her daughter-in-law who sat beside her on the sofa edged an inch nearer.

"Wh-what is your opinion, Mr. Eveleigh," blurted Mr. Weatherill, "on the education of young ladies? Will Miss Eveleigh be sent to school?"

Thankfully the provost had firm opinions on this subject as he had the previous one, and the conversation moved into this safer channel.

Adela threw Mr. Weatherill a grateful glance, her lower lip trembling a little, and he gave the barest of nods. It was neither a glance so fleeting nor a nod so infinitesimal, however, that it escaped Mrs. Dere's notice, and she continued to study them quietly. What was this? What secret understanding was here? Good heavens—imagine if this insolent girl was to carry on some sort of affaire with Peter's tutor, right under their very noses! O di immortales! Wretched, wretched Miss Barstow, to prey upon the penniless Mr. Weatherill, when heaven knew nothing good could ever come of it and when Peter was so fond of him! Why should the minx be allowed to flirt for amusement, heedless of the consequences? Some girls simply could not keep themselves from coquetry, it seemed. It was the air they breathed, however inappropriate the object. But she, Mrs. Markham Dere, would see those parasitical Barstows detached and floated off before she would banish the tutor. Ah—what fools young men were, to be so easily caught!

For the present, however, Mrs. Dere confined herself to raising her head to issue a warning glare at Miss Barstow. You will not have your way so easily, my girl.

My eye is upon you.