Chapter 14

Ev'ry Knight is proud to prove his Worth.

— Dryden , translation of Virgil , Georgics, iv (1697)

The rain cleared, to be followed by autumn days which began frosty and crisp before mellowing into afternoon warmth. And true to her resolution, Adela resumed her morning walk to Perryfield with Gordy, usually accompanied by Frances. It must be admitted that, though the weather improved, spirits at Iffley Cottage contrarily sank lower and lower as each day passed with no word from Jane and no report from Mr. Weatherill's circle.

While Adela did not encounter the tutor again when calling at the Tree Inn for the post, he came every day or two to Iffley Cottage, ostensibly to deliver his no-news himself. The first time this happened, the sight of him coming up the walk threw the Barstows into a flurry which they could scarcely disguise when Reed announced him. Indeed, Gerard almost regretted coming when he admitted he had nothing to tell and saw the faces of the older Barstows fall. By the third visit he developed a routine: he shut the gate smartly to announce himself and then gave a decided shake of his head as he approached, knowing that whoever peeped out the window would tell the others, "It's Mr. Weatherill, but he hasn't heard anything."

"One—correspondent—did reply to say he…asked around," Weatherill reported at this third call as he chose the seat nearest Adela. "Unfortunately without success. But he said that was likely a good thing, as he—well—he lives and moves in a rather shabby part of town."

Mrs. Barstow murmured her understanding and tried to smile at this, but Weatherill could see his words did not comfort them.

"Is there more than one shabby part of town, Mr. Weatherill?" Adela asked. "That is, if Jane and Roger are not known in that particular part of London familiar to your friend, could that mean they might be doing…a little better for themselves?"

When she turned those lovely brown eyes upon him, he wished he could say things which brought the glow to them, but he was too incorrigibly honest. "Sad to say, Miss Barstow, but there are several poorer areas of town. Moreover, I—don't know anyone in the other parts."

"I understand," said Adela, but after a pause she could not help adding, "And it would be an expense and an inconvenience for your friend to venture all over London on an errand which means little to him. If only we might offer a reward!"

"I might sell my cameo brooch," offered Sarah at once, though it gave her an immediate pang, for it had been Sebastian's last gift to her.

"Nonsense, Sarah," declared Mrs. Barstow. "You have so few things to remember Sebastian by. I-I will sell my mother's pearls."

"I have Bash to remember Sebastian by," Sarah protested, "and you treasure your mother's pearls, Mrs. Barstow."

"That may be, Sarah, but I will point out that I do not wear my mother's pearls every day, as you do your cameo."

"We all have Bash to remember Sebastian by," pointed out Frances, "and you do treasure your mother's pearls, Mama, so clearly we should sell the amber cross Sebastian bought me ."

"Sebastian gave me a locket," said Maria from the carpet, where she and Gordon were playing draughts. "Though I should be sorry to give it up. And Gordy, what about that penny whistle he gave you—"

"What a hurry you all are in, to give away Sebastian's gifts!" Adela interrupted, unable to repress a laugh. "You will make Mr. Weatherill think we did not love him a jot, when it is precisely the opposite. But all your self-sacrifice is neither here nor there because I don't suppose we can offer a reward. At least not discreetly."

"I fear Miss Barstow is right," put in Weatherill. "For one thing, you would have to go at least to Oxford to sell your possessions, but there is such close communication between Oxford and Iffley that it would be known in Iffley by nightfall. And, if I were to tell my correspondents of a new reward, it might indeed lead to greater motivation, but it would also lead to more talk and more questions."

"Too true," sighed Mrs. Barstow, sinking back in resignation. "You and Della are right. Of course we cannot trust everyone to be as trustworthy and confidential as you, Mr. Weatherill."

He colored under this praise and could not help glancing at Miss Barstow to see if she agreed with it, and the tender, rueful regard he met with nearly finished him. Ten years, he reminded himself. But heaven help him to refrain from speaking his feelings another ten minutes !

"Mr. Weatherill," Adela began abruptly, inching forward on her chair. She looked in turn at her mother, Sarah, and Frances, and Mrs. Barstow gave a quick nod. "There is something we have not told you. Something—additional—which makes your discretion—everyone's discretion—all the more vital."

The tutor straightened, perceiving the sudden tension in the room. Even the younger children sat up from their game.

"There is a reason our Jane has been so uncommunicative. It is not just that she is made conscious by the difficulties she and Roger face, though there is that." Adela's pleading look made Weatherill wish he could take her in his arms to reassure her. Whatever she had to say could not begin to compare with what he would ultimately have to confess to her, before he could ask her to be his wife. In fact, he realized with a thrill of eagerness, perhaps it might even lessen the horror of his own secrets.

Twisting her sewing in her hands in a manner which reminded Weatherill of Mrs. Barstow, Adela raised a level gaze. "You see, Jane and Roger did not simply marry out of Twyford before the rest of us removed to Iffley. They—eloped. For the longest time we did not even know if they would marry. We—did not even know if Roger Merritt were gentleman enough to make an honest wife of her. Such are the doubts we have had about his character."

"I see," he murmured, when she choked to a halt. Now every last Barstow fixed the same anguished look upon him, as if he were their judge and jury. But it was not condemnation of them which caused the glitter in his eye. It was indignation that any rogue might attach himself to such a family, might try to press his advantage against ones who had so little.

"Yes. You see why this is the very last thing we would ever want Mrs. Markham Dere to know," Adela hurried on. "She would certainly tell the baron he should not receive—much less house—such reprehensible connections. She would urge him to turn us out, if not for the sake of the Dere name then for the sake of his heir's character, Peter being at such a vulnerable age."

"I see," Weatherill repeated, his brow continuing to darken. Not only Adela, but every Barstow, assumed they were sinking—plummeting—in his estimation, when truly even Roger Merritt's knavery had now been displaced in his thoughts by another revelation altogether. So this was why Miss Barstow was so desperate to catch Lord Dere! Gerard had not understood why she should form so extreme a plan when the baron already freely welcomed her family and seemed disposed to be generous.

This was why.

And she was not wrong in thinking Mrs. Dere would do precisely what she feared, if ever she found out. After all, was that not the very reason why he himself kept his cards so close? For fear of dismissal and expulsion?

Ah…but what would this mean for his own suit? Were he to throw himself at Miss Barstow's feet now, even if her heart inclined to him (something of which Weatherill was not confident) and even if she were willing to entertain the preposterous idea of a ten-year engagement, she could not possibly choose him above her current plan, not when he was helpless to stave off the disaster which threatened her. Worse—when his own background only compounded the threat.

I need more time .

Indeed, his only hope lay in Lord Dere remaining oblivious to Miss Barstow's efforts. But how long could that last, especially if Miss Barstow multiplied her attempts? If his obliviousness gave place to awareness, then Weatherill's only hope would be reduced to Lord Dere gently, inexplicably resisting her appeal. That is, Lord Dere would need to prove insensible to youth, beauty, flattering helplessness, and the desire to play rescuer.

A grimace tugged at his lips. He himself could never do it. Resist her. If Miss Barstow came on her knees to him, pleading for him to save her, save her family—if she came, having only her lovely self to offer in the balance—she would not have time to frame her entreaty before Weatherill's kiss would devour the rest of her words.

It was Mrs. Barstow who broke the silence, her voice humbled. "Mr. Weatherill, I see we have shocked you. That you too, perhaps, wish yourself free of our acquaintance—"

"What?" His head came up suddenly, hardly understanding her because his thoughts had been so removed.

Adela too misread his scowl of perplexity, and seeing undeserved shame raise her mother's blush, indignation flooded her, driving her to her feet. "We have taken enough of your time with our private problems, I daresay," she said coldly.

Leaping to his own feet from automatic courtesy, Weatherill sputtered, "No, indeed. That is—unless I have taken too much of your time, considering I had nothing of consequence to impart."

But Mrs. Barstow disapproved of her daughter's show of reserve, and she too stood, a placating hand extended toward the tutor. It was not Mr. Weatherill's fault, after all, that Jane might bring disgrace on the Barstows. If he shrunk at their confession, it was no more than the world would do. "Mr. Weatherill," she said in her soft manner, "you are always welcome at Iffley Cottage. We recognize that your assistance, though it has not yet yielded new knowledge of the Merritts, was nevertheless freely and kindly given."

Though Adela had stiffened, fearing he would hesitate to take her mother's hand, she was proven wrong at once in her suspicions, for Mr. Weatherill fairly lunged at it and bowed over it as if Mrs. Barstow were a duchess.

"Thank you, madam. And permit me to assure you again that what you have said to me today shall go no further. While I—agree with Miss Barstow that we had better not offer a reward, I will write again to my small circle and, as unconcernedly as I am able, renew my inquiries."

He was rewarded with smiles and pleasant leave-takings from all present save Miss Barstow. Even Miss Maria and Gordon crowded about him, entreating him to play draughts with them on his next call. But just when Gerard assumed Miss Barstow's frosty demeanor would continue, she alone accompanied him to the door to wait with him while Reed fetched his hat.

As her mother had a few minutes earlier, Adela extended a hand to him, her lowered lashes dark on her scarlet cheeks. "Mr. Weatherill, I would like to second what my mother said," she murmured. "You have indeed been a friend to us, despite knowing more to our detriment than anybody in Iffley."

While her motion and sentiments resembled Mrs. Barstow's, Weatherill seized her hand in an entirely different spirit from how he had taken her mother's. Adela wore no gloves, having been at her needlework, and Weatherill's grip was such that his skin might as well have been bare, such was the warmth which passed between them. It might have been ten seconds or ten minutes before Reed marched back into the passage holding Weatherill's hat, but either way they remained thus until they heard her steps. Then, dropping their clutch like a thief might his sack of ill-gotten goods, they mutually retreated a step.

Weatherill took his hat. Thanked Reed. Reed curtseyed and slowly departed.

But then, though each sorely regretted the maid's interruption, the moment could not be recaptured. Neither Weatherill nor Adela was able to think of a single thing to say to the other, though perhaps their eyes and discomfiture said enough.

No. Weatherill could only bow again and stumble out as best he might, leaving Adela to sigh and lean against the closed door. How many times they re-lived the scene afterward in their minds would not be an easy calculation to make, but suffice to say, each was to wonder later whether its intensity had been real or imagined. Shared or unequal. Was it, Weatherill asked himself, because he had grasped her slender fingers so ferociously? Or had it been, Adela worried, because she wound her fingers between his, in bold, unmaidenly fashion?

Mrs. Lamb had to call Weatherill's name twice before he remarked it.

"Ah, sir," she said from the Tree Inn doorway, "good afternoon. Come, come. A shame I call it. A disgrace."

His thoughts still full of Adela's difficulties, her choice of words stopped him on the spot. "Good afternoon, Mrs. Lamb. What can you be referring to?"

"I don't mean a ‘what' at all, Mr. Weatherill. I mean a who . If you would wait one moment…" She vanished inside, returning shortly with a letter held high. "You see? That wretched boy Nick makes a habit of tossing the post bag between the chair legs in the bar-room. Lines the chairs up like a tunnel and then slings the bag like a curling stone across my polished floor! In any event," she hurried along, holding out the letter, "I found this later when I was sweeping. It's from your London friend."

With difficulty Weatherill restrained himself from snatching it, and after a minimum of vague chat in which the postmistress probed and he parried her curiosity, he got rid of her.

The Fleet

4 October 1800

Dear Gerard:

Forgive my long silence. I did not want to burden you with the expense of paying for letter after letter, if each one said little more than, "I have learned nothing." But at last I have a budget for you, little of it good, I'm afraid.

You asked me to be on the lookout for word of your new acquaintances' family members' whereabouts, that they might write to them. In my confined world I have little reach, as you are aware, though I sounded those with greater, when opportunity arose. But alas, Gerard, without assistance from anyone I can now report exactly where Roger and Jane Merritt may be found. Because they are here.

The tipstaff delivered Merritt yesterday to the warden, directly from Serjeant's Inn where the judge for Common Pleas sat, and the man is now to be detained in the Fleet "until the amount of the damages and costs in the action of Spacks against Merritt be fully paid and satisfied." It was a sorry sight, I assure you. Merritt was gay and defiant enough, a handsome rogue who puts me in mind of your father, but his little wife clung to him all in tears. At present all rooms on the Master's side are occupied, so the Merritts are tenants of old Eddings and his wife, but at least they were not reduced to the closets which pass for apartments on the Common side.

I do not envy you the task of telling the Merritts' family and will certainly write to you again if I learn of any improvement in their circumstances.

So much for the task you set me. Gerard, you will want to know if your father's health improves, but I cannot satisfy you there. He has lost weight and grown haggard, though that might be attributable to the long effects of drink. He will be Rioting Rob to the last, I fear.

There is one tiny atom of personal good news, and I have none save you who would understand or rejoice to hear it, but Antiquities of Egypt is to be published at long last, and Murray has agreed to the anonymous authorship of "An Oxford Scholar." I insisted on this latter point, having so disgraced both my name and my college, but if Antiquities succeeds in finding enough readers, he will consider a second volume with additional plates! You know how long I have labored over this. Indeed, you were a fellow laborer in the vineyard. My dear boy, if there is a circulating library in Iffley, might you persuade them to purchase a copy?

Your obliged and faithful friend,

Wm Keele

Weatherill had indeed spent many hours of his youth laboring alongside his teacher and mentor, organizing the unending stacks and sheafs of scrawls and sketches, ordering and summarizing. The announcement of Antiquities of Egypt's long-awaited (and long-doubted) debut would ordinarily have struck Gerard like a thunderbolt from a clear sky, but in the shadow of the Merritts' fate it hardly made any impression.

Roger Merritt arrested for debt and sent to the Fleet! He and his wife, the former Miss Jane Barstow, huddled in Eddings' room with however many others, until a private apartment should become available? Good heavens. This would kill the Barstows. Every detail of it. How could he possibly, possibly be the bearer of such ill tidings?

Despite his earlier assurances to them, Weatherill did not retrace his steps to Iffley Cottage. How could he, when he thought of Mrs. Barstow's kindness to him and Miss Barstow's warm hand in his?

No, no, thought the unwilling messenger. Let them have another day's peace before he crushed them with this news. To cast the Barstows into such a slough of despond without offering any hope for how they might eventually struggle out? They certainly had no money to pay Roger Merritts' debts, any more than Merritt himself did. And if Merritt had not been able to support himself and his wife while at liberty, the task became nigh impossible once he was imprisoned. Only see how many years Keele had taught the most promising prison children for pennies, without earning enough to purchase his freedom! Indeed, few could, after paying their expenses of food and lodging to the warden.

Slowly, despondently, Weatherill paced along Wallingford Way. When he came to the long wall of Perryfield, he paused at the open arch, hoisting himself into the stone frame of the glassless window where he might re-read Keele's letter, repeating over and over in his head, What can be done? What can be done?

The twentieth time he read the letter a possible answer finally came to him.

He has lost weight and grown haggard.

That was it! He would return to London, with the excuse of visiting his ailing father. And once there, he would see what, if anything, could be done for the Merritts. At the very least he could pass comforting words to Mrs. Roger Merritt of her family's continuing love, and carry back to the Barstows a firsthand report of their prodigal.

His meditative gaze wandered toward the great house. Mrs. Dere would not like him taking a leave of absence, that was certain. But at least he had been longer at his post now and hopefully earned more of her trust. And Weatherill was certain the baron would permit it. Besides, what choice did Weatherill have? He would far rather Mrs. Dere direct her disapproval at him, than at the poor Barstows. Imagine Mrs. Dere learning the Merritts had been arrested for debt and confined to the Fleet! She would send the Barstows packing before you could say Jack Robinson, and even the baron might not be able to hold his ground against the withering force of her condemnation.

With the memory of Miss Barstow's hand in his, Gerard hopped down from the arch, brushing himself off and tucking the letter away. Then he strode, jaw set and mind made up, home to Perryfield.