Chapter 16

She was a Phantom of delight

When first she gleam'd upon my sight.

— Wordsworth , Poems, vol. I.14 (1807)

Of course it was not she.

As soon as his eyes adjusted to the murkiness he realized his mistake, for this young lady, though she too had dark hair, was thinner and paler than Miss Barstow, and her eyes were more hazel than brown. And when she abruptly straightened at being addressed, he found she was also taller than his beloved.

"Who are you?" she demanded, in a voice which nevertheless caused him a pang. This had to be Jane Merritt. The resemblance would be incredible otherwise.

Quint the turnkey looked from one to the other, and Weatherill raised a hand. "Pardon me. I misspoke. For surely you must be Mrs. Roger Merritt."

She shrank back, gathering her shawl about her, as if she would retreat from the corridor.

"The turnkey will vouch for me," he added quickly. "I am Gerard Weatherill, an acquaintance of your family in Iffley. In fact, I tutor your young brother."

"Y-You know Gordy?" she whispered.

"I do. Gordon, the two Mrs. Barstows, Miss Barstow, Miss Frances, Miss Maria. Even the baby Sebastian. I know them all. I was with them only Friday."

Tears welled in her eyes which were so like her sister's, and she mouthed, Oh. For a second Gerard thought she might throw herself in his arms and cry like a child, and he braced himself for it, but instead she gulped noisily and dashed at her eyes with her sleeve.

"Would you introduce me to Mr. Merritt?" he asked gently.

At the mention of her husband, her demeanor became flat. "Roger? You may find him yourself in the tap-room, if you care to. If he is not there, he might be playing billiards."

"It can wait. Perhaps then there is somewhere we might speak?" He allowed a pair of men to shuffle by, his indignation flaring when one of them looked Mrs. Merritt's person up and down.

She was too dulled to remark it, however, and when Weatherill added, "My old friend Quint here may serve as chaperone, if you haven't anybody else," she only shrugged. Things were worse than he had supposed. Another week here and she would be as hollow-eyed as the prison veterans.

Weatherill led the way back to the graveled racket ground, surrounded by its high brick walls. It was crowded with people like shades, pacing up and down, but few of them gave the trio a second glance, being too occupied with their own unhappiness. The fresher air revived his companion, however, and she soon urged in a trembling voice, "Tell me about my family. How are they? How I miss them and long for them. Are they well? Is my mother well? Did they send you to me? But how could they, if they did not know where I was?"

"Shhh…I will tell you all, if you will allow me," he soothed. "They are all in good health. Excellent health. And would have no care in the world, if not for their concerns for you, Mrs. Merritt."

"I know it!" she cried, covering her face with her hands, so that her words emerged muffled. "I never meant to worry them. And I was going to write to them again, the moment we were settled in—a pleasant place. But there was never any pleasant place."

It was all Weatherill could do not to pat the girl's shoulder, and he saw even the hulking Quint biting his lower lip—Quint, who had seen the worst of everything passing through the gates of the Fleet!

"They do not know you and Mr. Merritt are here," he continued. "I discovered it only because a—friend—told me. You see, knowing I came from London, your family asked if I might learn your whereabouts by asking among my acquaintance. When I did learn, I came at once, without even telling them where I was going."

Lifting her eyes, she plucked at his sleeve. "Did you? You must be…dear to them, for them to confide in you thus."

Dear to the Barstows? To Miss Barstow, in particular? How he hoped so!

She saw his color change, a muscle twitching in his jaw, and his consciousness distracted her from her own woes for the first time, long enough to inspect him curiously.

"The Barstows and I…we are all newcomers to Iffley," he hurried on. "In fact, we arrived the very same day. And we are all Lord Dere's dependents, in one fashion or another, so it is—quite natural—that we should become friends."

"Quite natural," agreed Mrs. Merritt, still regarding him in that acute way which reminded him unsettlingly of her older sister. But then her cares pressed upon her again and she sighed. "I thank you for your friendship to them, Mr. Weatherill. You did say your name was Weatherill?"

There was a hitch in Gerard's step at the question, though he gave a nod. The Fleet held perhaps three hundred prisoners at any given time, besides the workers who ran it and the visitors like himself who came and went. Surely a young lady like she could have no knowledge of his disreputable father Rob Weatherill! She had only been a denizen of the place a week, after all, and he doubted Mrs. Merritt even knew where to find the tap-room. The same could not be said for her husband Roger Merritt, however, and a man who would not keep close guard on his wife in a place like this very well might know Rioting Rob. Had Merritt mentioned Gerard's father to his wife? Seeing a faint line appear between his companion's brows, Weatherill was in two minds whether to tell Mrs. Merritt what he had as yet told no one beyond these walls. But before he could make up his mind to do so, she shook off her thoughts and the moment passed.

"Well, sir, if you are my family's friend, you are mine as well," she said at last. "And now that you have found me in this shameful place, in these shameful circumstances, what will you tell them?"

He had given this much thought as he clung to the coach roof all those hours, and he made his proposal now. "Mrs. Merritt, what if you were to tell them yourself, whatever you would like to tell them?"

"Do you mean write to them? Send a note back with you?"

"Better than a note or letter," he replied. "What if you were to send yourself? Go yourself? There is a respectable old woman who lives just outside the Liberty of the Fleet. I could ask her to accompany you to Oxfordshire."

But Mrs. Merritt was already backing away, shaking her head. "Leave Roger? How could I? However unfortunately this has all turned out, he is still my husband. I cannot simply…abandon him here." Her voice rose, and she fanned a hand before her face in distress. "I thought—I thought—Roger would take better care of me. I—believed everything he said. I—thought by now I would be writing to my mother from Shropshire to say all was well. I thought we might even send them some money, but—but—"

"Listen to me," he insisted. "I cannot suppose Mr. Merritt is any happier with how things have fallen out, but seeing you in these conditions and knowing that he himself is responsible for it will only add to his suffering. If you were to return to your family, he would be saved the expense of your keeping here, and he would have the additional comfort of knowing you were safe and cared for."

"I—but I—I am going to find work as a seamstress or milliner," she protested, dashing away her tears angrily. "And how would Mama keep me, when she hasn't any more money than Roger?"

"You may work as a seamstress or hat-trimmer in Iffley, if you insist, but I believe the combination of the baron's generosity and your family's small income will stretch to support you. They are not wealthy by any means, but they have enough for now. And certainly Lord Dere expected you to be one of the party at the outset, so there will be no problem there."

"But what would I say happened to Roger?" she persisted. "Do the Deres not know I am married?"

"They do know it," Weatherill admitted. "Your family had to explain your absence, you see. But the Deres do not know you and Mr. Merritt—er—eloped. Your mother and Miss Barstow thought it best to keep that detail quiet. Nor do the Deres know how difficult things have been for you since your marriage. You might say anything to them at this juncture. That town is so expensive, say, and it was easier for him to find lodging for a single person, but that you will rejoin him when things are more settled."

She was wavering. He could see it. Indeed, it would have been unthinkable that she did not waver. Only look at her life here, weighed against the tug of family and quiet and peace! Weatherill himself did not know how he had borne his time here so long. But he had had Susanna, and poor Jane Merritt had nothing but her shiftless husband.

"Only say the word," he murmured, "and I will arrange it. You might be in Oxford as soon as tomorrow evening and in your family's embrace but one hour later."

"Oh," she moaned, hanging her head. "By tomorrow! I want to so badly, may heaven forgive me. But how can I? You think Roger would be glad to think me safe, away from here, but—but you don't know him. I suspect he would think I had no confidence in him."

Have you any? he wanted to ask, but he managed to smother the question.

"I cannot go," she sighed, so low he had to bend to catch her words. "I am his wife, for better or worse. He will have no one to care for him if I were to leave. Already he—drinks too much. If I went, he would despair. It would hasten his ruin."

Though he had never met this Roger Merritt, Weatherill was beginning to think the man had no redeeming qualities. With his wife in such a place, how could the rogue waste their little money drowning his sorrows with spiritous liquor? Gerard could not be blamed for feeling this way—any child of Rioting Rob would, who had seen his father go down the same path Roger Merritt now trod.

He had but one more card to play, then, if he was to persuade her.

"Mrs. Merritt," he said slowly, "it is entirely possible that your husband will choose to drink whether you are with him or not. Whether he can afford such a pernicious habit or not. He may also resent your going, even if it meant you might be able to pay his debts and buy his freedom the sooner. But you must go. For your own health and safety, and for the sake of your family."

She looked sharply at him when he spoke this last. "How so? How could it possibly benefit my family, for me to bring my shame home for them to bear, when it has been all my own doing?"

"Because, Mrs. Merritt, if it is discovered that your husband has been imprisoned here for debt, the scandal may jeopardize your family's situation." Briefly he explained the existence and character of Mrs. Markham Dere, concluding with, "I would not even want Mrs. Dere to know of my visit here, for I do not doubt it would cost me my position if she learned of it. How much more your family's welfare? If you go yourself, you and you alone will determine the narrative, rather than letting the story reach Iffley through whatever channels, a story I think you must agree is shocking enough, even before gossip supplies its common exaggerations."

His speech was not without effect, and for a moment he thought, in her burdened, weakened state, it required only this touch to make her crumble. Her silent tears flowed, driving both Weatherill and Quint to dig in their pockets for a handkerchief to offer, but Quint rejected his as too grimy and applied it therefore to his own eyes, and before Weatherill could draw his out, Mrs. Merritt had thrown herself against his chest to sob into his travel-stained, threadbare coat.

"Don't tempt me, sir!" she cried. "I can't leave here, I tell you! Don't, don't tempt me!"

Surprise paralyzed him for an instant, and then, before he could work his arms loose from her grasp to pat her or stand her upright again, the next thing Gerard knew, he was taken by the collar and hurled to the gravel.

"That'll teach you to lay hands on my wife! Tempt my wife!" came a slurring roar, followed by a kick to Weatherill's backside which might have done him great injury, had it been administered by a sober man. As it was, the boot struck him such a glancing blow that it slid straight off, carrying its owner off his own feet and landing him flat on the gravel beside his victim.

"Roger!" shrieked his wife, flying to kneel beside him. "Have you hurt yourself?"

"Let's have no more of that, you," barked Quint, the brawny turnkey stabbing a thick finger in Merritt's face.

Humiliated, Merritt jerked his head away from the reprimand and glared at his better half. "Push off, you deceitful hussy!" This, as he began to struggle to a sitting position by pulling himself up her arm hand over hand.

"Oh, Roger," wailed Mrs. Merritt, tipping over atop him. "How could you speak to me that way? Why, why, must you drink?"

By this point Quint had assisted Weatherill to his feet, and the tutor stood dusting himself off and eyeing with dismay the rent in the knee of his trousers. He had a strong desire to return Merritt's attentions in kind, a desire not lessened by hearing the manner in which the drunkard addressed his poor spouse.

"—Listening to s-scoundrel's s-speeches! Throwing yourself at strange men like a common strumpet when my back is turned—"

"I have done nothing to deserve that name, and neither has he," she insisted as they grappled and grumbled up. "And how could I help being distraught when Mr. Weatherill brought me news of my family? For he has seen them, Roger! Mr. Weatherill knows them—Mama and Della and Sarah and Frances and Maria and Gor—"

"Weatherill?" he bellowed. "Did you say ‘ Weatherill' ?"

"If you had not thrown me to the ground, sir, I would have introduced myself," said Gerard stiffly.

"Yes, Roger," Mrs. Merritt resumed, "Mr. Gerard Weatherill—he knows them all, and I was so overcome by missing them that—"

"I would have guessed it soon enough," growled the worthy Merritt, paying his wife no heed. "You have the look of him about you."

There was no need for Gerard to ask whom Merritt referred to; nor was he likely to find the remark flattering. But Mrs. Merritt fell silent, the line appearing again between her brows. She raised her head and tapped her husband's chest. "Who does Mr. Weatherill look like, Roger?"

"Who?" he snapped. "Who else? Like Weatherill Senior ! Like Rioting Rob himself!"

"I don't understand," she said faintly, now frowning at Gerard.

Ah.

Here it was.

The truth he would have kept from the outside world, if he could have. Would she now tell it to her family, if he could convince her to leave her husband?

After a long breath he said, "I'm the son of Robert Weatherill. Better known within these walls as Rioting Rob."

Her hazel eyes, shaped like her beloved sister's, grew wide, and Gerard wondered if Miss Barstow's would be so round and horror-struck when she too learned his secret. He had little time to ponder this, however, before Merritt was upon him again, wrenching free of his wife's supporting arm to fling himself at Gerard's throat. "And just like that one," he roared, "you mean to come between me and what's mine."

Before his assailant's fingers did more than brush Weatherill's neckcloth, Quint had him in hand. "I said that's enough out of you, Merritt," he chided, giving him a shake. "You need your head under the pump and then a visit to the warden."

The turnkey marched him away, calling back to Weatherill, "Better be on your way for today, sir. This will need a little straightening, and the warden will likely call your father in as well. Come back tomorrow and see him then."

He needed no further convincing, for Mrs. Merritt prepared to follow Quint and her husband, her shoulders slumping and arms wrapped about herself. But after a few steps she turned and darted back to him.

"I should apologize for my husband," she blurted, stopping several feet away. "I suppose appearances were deceiving. And I don't know what he meant about your father coming between Roger and me because I've never met the senior Mr. Weatherill to speak of him. I've only heard of him from Roger and—and by reputation."

Gerard's bow of acknowledgement was ironic. Yes, the biggest thing about Rioting Rob Weatherill was his reputation. And the bellicose Roger Merritt was likely not the only person in the world who believed that even being related to such a fellow warranted punishment. Take Mrs. Markham Dere: should she ever learn the truth, Gerard didn't doubt she would metaphorically try to level him.

"Mrs. Merritt, only tell me if you will continue to think on what I said. You can see this is no place for you."

But she backed away again, shaking her head. "How could I? You would not know it, because of the…condition he was in, but this is no place for Roger, either. We must—we must pray that no one else learns of my sad situation. You have my family's confidence, sir, and now you will have mine. Please. I ask you to continue to keep my secret from them."

Weatherill ran a distressed hand through his hair. "Could we speak further tomorrow, Mrs. Merritt? I could bring the older woman I spoke of."

"I don't know. Perhaps we had better not."

But he was not above the use of cunning. Carefully he said, "I could tell you more of your family."

She turned anguished eyes on him at this, her hands clenching and unclenching. Then, with a short nod: "If you come early enough, before noon, say, my husband will still be abed. I can often be found in the chapel."

Then she was gone.

Only hours later, after another walk and another cheap meal in a chop house, as he lay in his tiny, noisy room at the Bolt in Tun, did Gerard return in thought to Merritt's curious accusation. If it was not Jane Merritt whom Rob Weatherill purported to steal from Roger Merritt, who or what was it?