Chapter 15

The parting of Friends and Lovers, is like the parting of the Soul and Body, always most easy when least warn'd of it.

— Eliza Heywood , The Female Spectator (1745)

Adela learned of Mr. Weatherill's departure completely by accident, being sent by Mrs. Barstow to the rectory to deliver a bottle of the new elderberry wine.

"Miss Barstow," the maid greeted her upon opening the door. "They're in the parlor."

Assuming the servant referred to the Terrys and their cohort of pupils, including the clumsy and unlucky Denver, Adela followed her wordlessly along the stone passage which led from the older, Norman portion of the rectory to the "newer," more comfortable Tudor part, where the Terrys spent most of their time.

Exactly the group Adela pictured was ranged about the room, though no sooner was she announced and greetings exchanged than the two Tommies, Wardour and Ellis, slipped past her to freedom. Poor George Denver of the injured leg followed their departure with resigned eyes and shifted the cushion under that limb. But Adela had no time to pity Denver because she was contending with surprise at Mrs. Markham Dere's presence.

"Miss Barstow!" cried the good lady, appearing rather ruffled, "I intended to call at Iffley Cottage directly upon leaving here."

"I hope you will, madam," answered Adela, "for we have some of our elderberry wine for Perryfield as well."

When they were seated again and all waiting to see who should renew the conversation, Mrs. Terry leaped into the breach with her usual confidence. "Mrs. Dere has been making arrangements—successful arrangements—for the boys' education."

"Successful temporary arrangements," amended Mrs. Dere.

Adela's brow rose, and she glanced at Denver. "The ‘boys'? Mr. Terry, do you seek a respite from teaching the Tommies and Denver?"

"Wouldn't that be delightful!" laughed the rector's wife. "We could take a little seaside holiday, my dear."

Mr. Terry chuckled at this. "I'm afraid not, Miss Barstow. It wasn't my boys Mrs. Dere referred to."

"Not a bit of it," Mrs. Dere said. "I meant Mr. Terry has kindly agreed to take on Peter and Gordon. I was going to call at Iffley Cottage next to inform your mother."

"But—why must Mr. Terry be encumbered with Peter and Gordy? They already have a tutor." Her heart had flown up to beat in her throat and choke her, it seemed, for this last emerged little better than a croak.

"Yes. Well. Mr. Weatherill has gone away," said Mrs. Dere with a wave of her hands.

It was fortunate here for Adela that Denver's cushion chose this moment to squirt from between his ankle and the ottoman, quite distracting everyone from noticing her gasp. And as she sat closest to the boy, she further hid her shock by bending to retrieve the item, making quite a business of securing it, as its satin cover made it as slippery as a fish.

"Please, Miss Barstow, do not trouble yourself," Mr. Terry urged, half rising. "Denver's injury is of such date that he likely need not elevate it any longer, but if he insists on it, he may hobble after his accoutrements himself."

Thrusting the cushion at Denver, Adela resumed her seat, hoping the flush of crimson staining her cheeks was attributed by all to her recent exertions. But the subject was too important to her for her to let it rest.

"Won't five pupils be too many for you, Mr. Terry?" she asked, so she need not come at the subject of Mr. Weatherill straight off.

It was Mrs. Terry who answered. "Five would be too many if Peter and Gordon were boarders, like the others, but as they will be day pupils, we will manage."

"Ah. I see. Well, thank you, sir, for taking them." She cleared her throat and strove for nonchalance. "You say the tutor has gone away, Mrs. Dere? Gordy made no mention of it."

"Gordon doesn't yet know of it. Harker and Ogle drove Mr. Weatherill to the Angel Inn only this morning, that he might find a seat on the London coach. There is only one departing on Saturdays, and he did not wish to wait until Monday."

"Why—why the rush?" What she would have liked to ask was, How could this possibly be, when I saw him only yesterday, and he said nothing of it?

"I'm afraid he received word that his father was unwell," explained Mrs. Dere, with a compression of her lips which perfectly expressed her opinion of fathers who inconveniently fell ill when their sons had jobs to do. "I thought he might like to wait for further details, or for his father to send for him—he admitted the man had not yet done so—but the baron insisted he go now. At once! Therefore who can say when he will return? Depending on what ails the elder Mr. Weatherill, it might be a week or a month before he either recovers enough for his son to feel comfortable leaving him or—or—"

"Or is carried off altogether by his ailment," supplied Mrs. Terry helpfully. Her husband had been a clergyman far too long for her to feel any squeamishness around the topic of death. She fished in her workbasket for her etui of needles. "But more troublesome than the senior Mr. Weatherill recovering his health after a period of time, or cleanly pitching over the post, would be for him to develop a chronic condition. Chronic conditions are so very unpredictable! The junior Mr. Weatherill would be obliged to fly up to town over and over in such a situation. Yes, Mrs. Dere, let us pray you are spared a chronic condition."

Mrs. Dere had known Mrs. Terry long enough to suspect she was being teased, and she drew herself up with injured pride. "I know I sound heartless," she admitted, "but Mr. Weatherill had never before mentioned his father or, indeed, any family, and I believe I may be excused for thinking him alone in the world. Moreover, if you were not so amenable, Mr. Terry, to letting Peter and Gordon join your pupils for an indefinite amount of time, I don't know what we would have done, being thus left in the lurch."

Snapping off her thread, Mrs. Terry only said, "What are neighbors for, Mrs. Dere? Though we may become a hair less neighborly if Mr. Weatherill Senior chooses to prolong his malady till Christmas. In the meantime, set your heart at rest. I, for one, see one cause for thankfulness: these two new students brought to sit at the feet of my Gamaliel are at least not named Tommy."

A quarter of an hour onward, Mrs. Dere and Adela took their leave, Mrs. Dere pulling on her gloves and accepting Ogle's assistance to mount. "Thank you for telling your mother and brother of Mr. Weatherill's absence, Miss Barstow, for the wind is picking up, and I will be glad to return to Perryfield. I wish I had taken the carriage. In any event, we will see you at church tomorrow, I expect. Good day."

Though the rectory stood a stone's throw from Iffley Cottage, Adela took her time returning home, her heart palpitating miserably. Why had he said nothing? The post arrived at the Tree Inn in the morning, so he would have known already of his father's condition before he called on them the day before. Unless there is nothing wrong with his father, and he had other reason to go. But, no, he had not seemed agitated when he called. He had not seemed to be turning over some scheme in his mind and hiding it from them. Could a courier have arrived at Perryfield the night before? Surely Mrs. Dere would have mentioned that. Adela had not wanted to pepper the woman with questions, however, for fear of arousing suspicion.

She sighed. Suspicion of what? Of Jane's scandal, or of the state of her own heart?

Why, why, why was she so foolish as to—love—Mr. Weatherill? A man of whom she knew almost nothing, except that he was poor and kind and intelligent and teasing and handsome and a good teacher and educated by an Oxford man. Oh—and she knew also that he disapproved of her hope to marry Lord Dere. (Another sigh.) And why shouldn't he disapprove? He would not be the only one to feel thus, if she succeeded, but somehow his disapproval weighed more heavily on Adela. Her family would be horrified but understanding. Mrs. Dere would be outraged but understanding. It was the way of the world, after all.

What does it matter what Mr. Weatherill would think? she told herself ruthlessly. He has gone away without a word, without a note, as if he did not give a rap for the trust you had shown him. And who knows when, if ever, he will return?

However harsh Adela was with herself, it still hurt to share the news with her family, for they had no compunction in voicing every question she would have liked to pose to Mrs. Dere.

"Gone away?" gasped Frances. "Just like that?"

"Why did he not mention it yesterday?" asked Mrs. Barstow.

"For how long?" Gordon demanded. "That's a rum go!"

"Don't use such language, Gordy," Frances scolded.

"Why shouldn't I? How else should I put it? To leave without even telling me or Peter!"

"He didn't tell any of us," put in Sarah. "Unless he told you, Della…?"

She shook her head and found herself having to defend the man. "He didn't know, I suppose. It must have been quite sudden. I don't know how long he will be away. Mrs. Dere didn't share any details, and I didn't like to ask."

"Why didn't you ask?" Gordon scowled. "I wish I had been there. I would have asked."

Adela wished her young brother had been there. He could have asked a hundred questions with Mrs. Dere thinking no more than that he was ill-mannered. "Perhaps you can ask Peter tomorrow at church or on Monday when you go to the rectory for your lessons."

"Why did he not tell us he had a father?" was little Maria's question.

"Everyone has a father, poppet."

"A living father," she clarified.

"Though possibly not for much longer," said Gordy, drawing the ire of his elders. "What? What? It's the truth. Unless it isn't, and Mr. Weatherill simply had enough of Iffley and wanted to make his escape."

"Della," began Sarah after a hesitation, "do you think it might be that Mr. Weatherill…had another reason for going?"

"What reason would that be?" Adela's voice was sharper than she would have liked, as she immediately pictured some bonny London sweetheart from whom Mr. Weatherill could no longer bear to be away. How the wretched girl would run to meet him, marveling over his new attire and the change chinking in his pockets.

"Why, to look about for Jane and Roger himself," Sarah proposed. "Perhaps our…dissatisfaction stirred him to making his own effort."

A little silence fell while each considered this possibility. Adela was conscious of momentary relief that her sister-in-law did not suggest the existence of the sweetheart in town, but this was soon swallowed in worry. A worry her mother shared.

"I hope not," said Mrs. Barstow. "That is, I hope Mr. Weatherill did not lie to the Deres for our sake. That would be very risky and foolish of him, and I would hate to think he was driven to it by our immoderate disappointment! Imagine if he thought us so ungrateful as to imply he should be doing more for us."

"Still, he might as well do some investigating while he's there," pointed out Frances, adding, when the others frowned at her, "What? Now I'm as bad as Gordy? I only mean that he might ask a question or two, or peep into an inn or two, when he isn't sitting at his father's bedside."

This seemed reasonable enough, they had to admit, though Mrs. Barstow said he might have not have time, if his father were truly very ill, and for a minute they were heartened by the idea. But it was Frances again who said in her practical way, "If he does learn anything of Jane and Roger, however, we will be the last to know, for now we will have to wait until he comes back to tell us. If he comes back."

"He will come back," Sarah declared, "or at least he will write to Mrs. Dere to say that he will not be returning. He seems a responsible young man. And I am certain, madam," she said to Mrs. Barstow, "that if he learns anything at all of Jane, he will send you word. Or at the very least, he will positively insist upon Jane doing so herself!"

It was dark when the coach arrived in the narrow yard at the Bolt in Tun in Fleet Street, but there had been no danger of Weatherill dozing off en route. For one thing, he had spent the journey in an outside seat, clinging to the roof like a piece of baggage, without benefit of a strap to fasten him down. For another, there was the din and smell and dirt of London swallowing him whole the moment the coach jolted across Oxford Street. And for a third, there was the tautness of his nerves, stretched by the risk he was taking.

He had not guessed it would be so easy to detach himself from Perryfield, and perhaps it would not have been, except that the baron was present when Weatherill made the request of Mrs. Dere. It was Lord Dere who said in his mild way over his niece's sputtering, "Illness is illness, and family is family. Of course you must go, Weatherill, and never mind us. Your loyalty to your father reflects well on your character." That only made Weatherill feel worse, naturally, for Rioting Rob's health provoked more regret than concern. Regret for the father Robert Weatherill might have been, had he not been, in fact, Rob Weatherill. And his father's health formed only a portion—and a small one, at that—of his motivation in going.

Climbing down stiffly, he took no offense when the coachman flung his battered portmanteau at his feet. Indeed, unlike in Adela Barstow's imaginings, the Gerard Weatherill who returned to London was met by no one and was outwardly indistinguishable from the young nobody who departed from the same inn in August. He wore his shabby clothing again; he carried his shabby bag.

The brief five-minute walk from the Bolt in Tun to the Fleet could have been accomplished at once, despite the street being still full of hackney coaches, carts and foot-walkers, but he knew the prison gates would soon be shut. His errand would have to wait for the following day. After securing the smallest room at the coaching inn and depositing his bag, however, he decided on a short stroll to stretch his legs. (A very short stroll, however, lest he meet with misfortune or violence.) Perhaps just to the bridge to look over the dark waters. What a contrast London was to the sheep-fields of Iffley and its sparsely populated lanes! Weatherill was half amused how unused he had grown to the whirl of town, and he kept to the wall to avoid being driven into the road. But once he stood on Blackfriars Bridge, the nearness of the Fleet beckoned, and he could not resist. With dragging feet he retraced his steps, not approaching the gate but rather standing back across Fleet Market while the memories flooded him.

Susanna.

Keele.

The school.

All those years.

And, of course, his father.

The exodus of the last visitors and the clanging of the bolts awakened him from his reverie, and he gave himself a shake.

Whatever the past was, those walls now enclosed his unknown future. For within those walls Jane Merritt waited, and her rescue was the task Gerard had set himself, in order to win the heart of her sister.

The following morning, after attending the service at St. Bride's, Weatherill walked again to the prison, following Ludgate along one edge of the Liberty of the Fleet.

Soon enough he stood before the open gate, only long enough to draw a deep breath, steeling himself, before he entered. With a turn to the left, he passed through the door into the corridor which led to the heavy, foreboding inner gate, by which a burly turnkey stood guard.

"Is that you, young Weatherill?" growled the man, squinting at him. Though it was day, the sky was overcast, and even in the brightest sun it was shadowy within the prison. "What are you doing back here, when you went off to see the wide world?" Grabbing Gerard's shoulder with a beefy hand, he groaned. "No—have you gone and bankrupted yourself? Did you learn nothing?"

"No, Quint. If I had bankrupted myself, I would be in someone's custody," Weatherill returned reasonably. "I am here on a visit, my good man. Keele wrote to me to say my father was unwell."

The turnkey snorted. "Unwell is he? Begging your pardon, but what else would you expect after a decade of being a five-bottle man?"

"Still drinking everyone under the table, I take it?" sighed Weatherill.

"And why not? It's how he makes half his rent, and you know as well as I that there's always new blood to try it on. King of the taproom is old Rioting Rob. Do you mean to lodge with him? Because he's had a—tenant—for some time."

By "tenant," Gerard knew that meant a disreputable woman, and he shook his head. "No, thank you. I'll sojourn with Keele if he'll have me."

"Can't with Keele," said Quint stoutly, marching ahead of him down the dirty, stone-paved gallery.

"What do you mean I can't?"

Halting before the damp and gloomy staircase leading to the hall flight, Quint peered at him. "He's gone, he is."

"Gone!" exclaimed Weatherill. "But I just had a letter from him! Do you mean he has—died?"

Whooping, the turnkey smacked the greasy stones of the wall. "Bless you, Weatherill. I don't mean he's dead. I mean he paid his debts and got his freedom." Weatherill's stare made him chuckle as he nodded. "That's right. That's what we all thought. Not a soul expected it. But it turned out those heaps and bags and files of worthless papers were worth something to somebody after all."

" Antiquities of Egypt ," breathed Weatherill. "Upon my word." So much for staying with his old mentor. Who knew where the man had gone now, after living so many years a prisoner? Keele had likely written to him of his new address, but that letter would sit under Mrs. Lamb's eye at the Tree Inn until Weatherill returned. He would have to inquire at the publisher Murray's, if he stayed that long. He huffed out a resigned breath. Either his stay in town would be briefer than he intended, or he must make other arrangements. Perhaps two birds with one stone…?

"Who do you know with a spare bed, Quint? Perhaps Eddings?"

Old Quint stared to hear the young man name such a squalid "landlord," but there was no denying that, to judge by his appearance, wherever young Weatherill had been, he had failed to get any richer. Therefore the turnkey shrugged. "You can ask," he said and led on.

As they penetrated further into the prison, the galleries and staircases grew more crowded, and Weatherill recognized with a heavy heart the blank looks and listlessness, the degrees of shabbiness. Oh, heavens, how he had wanted to put all this behind him! But for Miss Barstow's sake he went on. It did him good to think of her, however. Just picturing her in his mind, with her glowing brown eyes and rosy color livened him. Warmed him.

And then something miraculous happened.

Just beyond Quint's meaty shoulder, leaning against the open doorway in the dimness of the gallery, she stood. As if he had conjured her.

His voice emerged husky and barely audible.

"Can it be? Miss Barstow?"