Chapter 17

But he was at home there, he myght speake his will.

Every cocke is proude on his owne dunghill.

— John Heywood , A dialogue conteinyng the nomber in effect of all the proverbes in the englishe tongue (1546)

Despite the unpromising end to his conference with Mrs. Merritt, Weatherill thought it advisable to make further preparations for her deliverance, and the morning found him in Gough Square, knocking at the door of a timber-framed brick townhouse.

"It is I, Gerard Weatherill, Mrs. Bundicomb," he said in response to the timid "Who's that?" Relief filled him to hear her voice, for he had no idea whether the old woman was still living, much less keeping her boarding-house. It was here he and Susanna had lived, when Gerard saved enough of his pittance from Keele to afford lodgings separate from their father's in the Fleet.

Glancing up at the spiked iron bar over the fanlight which discouraged burglars, he heard her unfastening the corkscrew latch and chain, and the next minute he was giving the ill-fitting door a bump with his shoulder to help her get it open.

"Master Gerard!" cried tiny Mrs. Bundicomb, peering up at him. "I never thought to see you again."

"Nor I you," he answered honestly. "May I come in?"

"Of course you may. Come, come. Do you need a room again, sir? No? Though my niece and her husband have taken your former one, and I have two other lodgers—you remember old Mrs. Turpin and Mr. Gust? Oh, not Mr. Gust? That's right—he came in September, so of course you would not. In any case, another lodger is always welcome and can be squeezed in somewhere because it is quite something, to make both ends meet! And I had to have Meggy—that's my niece—and Tom her husband because I am getting old myself, you know, and must have some help, though they are not here at the moment. Meg has gone to the market, and Tom delivers coal in the mornings. But, yes, more lodgers can always be accommodated, sir, if you change your mind, especially any old friends."

Mrs. Bundicomb's chatter was as familiar to Weatherill as the dark wood panelling and creaking floorboards, and when she led him into the parlor he almost smiled to see the smoke-grimed portrait of her long-dead husband over the fireplace. He and Susanna used to call him Mr. Bunvictim because it was a sad truth that Mrs. Bundicomb would have made a better brickmaker than baker, so hard were the buns, biscuits and rolls produced by her.

"Have you breakfasted yet?" she smiled at him, indicating a tray of just such delights on a table at his elbow. "You must share mine."

It was easier to accept than to refuse, but Gerard took care to chip fragments from his bun and dip them hastily in the tea before attempting to chew them. Fortunately, Mrs. Bundicomb had much to tell him while he forced his food down: neighborhood gossip, the doings of each of her lodgers, changes since his departure, the everlasting struggle to keep one's head above water. Given what he intended to ask of her, he was not altogether sorry to hear how desperately she could use additional money, though his mouth twisted ruefully. Silver and gold have I nearly none, but such as I have give I thee…

"But how do you like your new position in Oxfordshire, Master Gerard? You have not lost it, have you?" She asked at length, when she had wound up her lengthy speech. Her gaze traveled doubtfully over Gerard's worn clothing—the same clothing he had worn when she last saw him a few months earlier—lingering on the wretched knee patch he had fashioned for his trousers the night before from a piece of his coat's inner lining.

"Not yet," he replied lightly. "I am back in town because I heard from my old schoolmaster Mr. Keele that my father was declining."

"And is he? How do you find him?"

"I don't know yet," he admitted. "I hope to see him when I go from here today, but it is in regard to another matter that I have called on you, Mrs. Bundicomb, remembering how faithfully you tended Susanna."

Her watery blue eyes widened. "Oh? What matter is that?"

Setting down the unfinished portion of his breakfast bun, he wiped his fingers on his handkerchief. "Mrs. Bundicomb, I have learned of a debtor only recently confined to the Fleet who is—known—to some of my new friends in Oxfordshire. These friends are as yet unaware, and I have no desire to explain to them my long and personal connection to the place. As you will understand, in order to keep my tutoring position, I thought it best to conceal the particulars of my father's unfortunate history. When I learned of this person's fate, I did want to help these friends, but in order to do so, I would need your help. Your help and your discretion. It would require two days of your time, but I am able to pay a small allowance for the inconvenience."

This combination of significance, secrecy, and silver was too much for the good woman. Though she remained seated, she fairly danced with anticipation, beating a tattoo with her feet on the carpet and gripping her own breakfast bun so tightly it shattered. "Indeed? Do you hope to…liberate this person and hide him here? I am ordinarily a God-fearing, law-abiding person, but for you, Master Gerard, I could—"

"Heavens, no, Mrs. Bundicomb, nothing like that," he laughed in spite of himself. "It is not the debtor I plan to rescue, but rather the debtor's wife."

"Oh," she sagged a little. "Well. That is better, I suppose. Meggy and Tom wouldn't like me to harbor fugitives."

"Nor would I," he rejoined dryly. "No, Mrs. Bundicomb, I do not know for certain if it will come about, or the timing of it all, but my scheme would involve a little journey for you…"

An hour later, with the good woman's assurances secured, Weatherill presented himself once more at the Fleet's inner gate. There was no Quint this time but rather a new turnkey whom he did not recognize, who merely shrugged when he admitted him and said loudly, "Weatherill to see Weatherill, is it? I'm guessing you need no guide, then."

Nor did he. Still, he said, "Same room?"

"As when?" was the surprising response.

"As three months ago. First gallery, over the coffee-room."

The man chewed the nothing in his mouth, screwing up his eyes as if he were trying to picture the plan of the prison. "Ayuh, no. He hasn't been there for weeks."

Gerard frowned. Was his father in truth unwell? Had all the stairs become too much for him? Or was it the cost? "Where, then?"

The turnkey whistled, and a bony, scraggy lad shuffled over. "Potts, show this person here where Rioting Rob can be found, though you take your life in your hands, mister, to be knocking 'im up before two."

The unprepossessing Potts sniffed and jerked a shoulder, to indicate Weatherill should follow, and the latter did, stifling a sigh as he dug in a pocket for a tip. Between the expenses of coach fares, the Bolt in Tun, and hiring Mrs. Bundicomb, the remnants of Mrs. Dere's initial advance were nearly exhausted. He had thought Keele might lodge him, but alas.

Not eager for more witnesses than necessary, Weatherill paid off Potts and began the long process of waking up his father. First the soft knock. Then the soft, steady drumbeat. Then the sharp rap. Then the woodpecker-like tattoo, accompanied by the rattling of the door handle. Throughout, Gerard periodically called Rob Weatherill's name through the crack where the door did not sit squarely in its frame.

At last, a roar was heard, followed by a thumping and the clatter of flimsy furniture being kicked aside. Then the door flew open to a volley of curses which died abruptly in the older man's throat.

"You!"

Slipping inside, Gerard shut the door behind him, despite the stuffy, unpleasant closeness of the room. If room it could be called. It fit only a narrow bed, a washstand, and a dilapidated wardrobe missing one door. In Gerard's time it had belonged to an old shoemaker who plied his trade from a bench squeezed alongside.

Thank goodness there's at least no "companion" to deal with, he thought.

Rob Weatherill tumbled back onto the unmade bed. "What are you doing here?" he mumbled. "Never thought…to see you again."

"Mr. Keele wrote to me to say you were unwell."

His father waved a dismissive hand. "A touch of fever at the turn of the season." And indeed, to the indifferent observer Robert Weatherill might appear unchanged, but the keener scrutiny of a son discovered his weight a touch lighter, perhaps, and the lines marking his handsome face somewhat deeper. As if guessing at these discoveries and resenting them, the father said with a sneer, "Never say you have already lost your position?"

Gerard rolled his eyes. Why did everyone assume he could not keep a respectable post, when the only thing jeopardizing it were the very things he could not control? The very things attributable to the man who sat before him!

"I am still employed," he said shortly.

"Well, then? You see I am in no imminent danger of popping off, so you may tell Keele to mind his own business, and you may take yourself off again." But when his son didn't move, Rob Weatherill eyed him warily. "I see they haven't been paying you much, wherever you have gone."

With a sigh, Gerard sank down to sit beside his father, the bed giving a fearful creak under their combined weight. "I have nothing to complain of there, sir. I even have a couple new suits of clothing, but I thought it better to appear here as I was."

"You always were too proud for this place."

That elicited an exasperated laugh. "Father. The Fleet is a prison. To land here is nothing to boast of, and to grow up here is a hardship to be overcome. When did you decide this was enough for you?" A growl met this, but no words, and after a minute Gerard went on. "Now that I am grown, would you tell me the size of the debt which has kept you here all these years?"

His father shook his head.

"Don't worry, I'm not going to offer to pay it," Gerard said dryly. "I think I have but four shillings left to my name. I only mean to say you must have some income—you have been paying for your room and board and…sundry other expenses for decades now. Though you seem to have economized somewhat—" he indicated the cramped chamber "—since I last saw you."

"Had to pay the doctor's bills," grumbled his father, "or he said he wouldn't come back a second time."

Gerard merely cocked an eyebrow at him.

"I won't tell you," Rob Weatherill said. "You're not the only one with pride. I don't need my own son telling me I could give up drinking and gaming and roistering and be out of here in time, if I only chose to. I don't choose to. I choose to live my life how I choose to live my life, and no one will tell me otherwise."

Briefly Gerard debated arguing with the man. It would be fruitless in the end, he knew, but he would have done his duty.

As if he read his mind, Rob Weatherill said, "You think your old man is a disgrace and a stubborn fool, I warrant, but I tell you that in here I am king. If I were to leave now or in a few years, having paid my debts, what would I be but a broken old man with nothing in the world and no time to make anything of it? Here I am housed and fed. I rule over my little domain, and no one will take it from me."

Robert Weatherill, king of the Fleet taproom. Duke of the Fleet billiard-room. What did that make Gerard? What honorary titles might be conferred on him? One princedom, to be sure. And the courtesy title of Marquess of Weatherill.

If it all weren't so pitiable, Gerard might have grinned. He almost did. After all, what was Lord Dere's barony, in comparison?

"All right, father."

Then Rob Weatherill looked directly at his son. "I don't want you coming back here again, Gerard. Not even if you hear I'm dying. I don't imagine I will go slowly and quietly at any rate. No. You go and live your life now and leave me to mine. With my blessing, for what it's worth."

"Sir." He was chagrined by the tightening of his throat. So this was how it would end? This would be the last time they saw each other?

His father pushed to his feet and began his ablutions at the washstand, though the room was so confined that Gerard felt some of the drops of water strike him. Uncertainly he stood up himself, being careful not to knock into the bed or his father, but there would be no getting to the door until Rob Weatherill moved. Not that he wanted to escape. If this would be the last time they talked, Gerard somehow wanted more from him. In truth, he had always wanted more from his father and had always told himself there was no more to be had. No more that Rioting Rob Weatherill would or could give.

But still he stood there.

Scrubbing at his face with the tattered towel, Rob finally emerged ruddy and guarded. It seemed he was as surprised as Gerard to find the younger man holding out. And the surprise shifted something in the older one. His guard unexpectedly lowered. "Wait, boy. Before you go—tell me a little about your new place. Are you—contented—there?"

Gerard felt a flush burn his cheeks. How long had it been since his father asked him about himself? He could not think of a time. Remember a time.

Swallowing, he said carefully, "I like it well. Very well. I have two agreeable young pupils, comfortable lodgings, a generous stipend."

"Not so generous that you can pay off your father's sins, though, eh? Ah, don't look like that, boy! Do you not know a joke when you hear one? Well, we can't all be world conquerors. So will this be the rest of your life? Tutor, tutor, tutor?"

Later he could not explain to himself why he said it, but he did: "Perhaps in several years I will marry and have a family."

Immediately he regretted sharing this, and he grimaced, half expecting another mocking remark. But fleeting across his father's features was an expression Gerard had not seen before. (Had Adela been present, she would have recognized it as "the shadow," and noted the resemblance between father and son.) But Gerard, having no conception of what he looked like when his own "shadow" came on, struggled to interpret it. Thoughtfulness? Wistfulness? Nostalgia?

"Your mother," Rob Weatherill began, studying the towel he still held, "was a woman worth waiting for."

"Did you…wait for her, sir?" Gerard had only the vaguest memories of a quiet, sad-eyed woman. One time she was humming as she sewed, another time rocking an infant Susanna.

"Four years. I waited four years." His father folded the towel in half precisely and laid it on the edge of the basin. "She…deserved a better life. A longer one, certainly." Raising his head, his gaze met his son's. "If she had lived, well…" He shrugged. "Well, then I suppose I would not be the monarch of all I survey. I hope you and your lady fare better."

Such a confession from his father forced more unwilling words from him. "Thank you, sir. I hope so too."

"Then there is already a young lady?"

Gerard's silence and renewed color was answer enough, even if he had not muttered, "There is. At least, I want to marry her. She doesn't know it yet."

"A good girl? Kind? Gentle?"

"Everything," Gerard whispered. "The best girl. Delightful. Spirited. Lovely. The anchor of her family."

Rioting Rob sighed heavily, his hand lifting for a moment as if he would place it upon his son's shoulders, but he was not quite that courageous, and it dropped back to his side. Still, he said in a quiet voice, "Whoever she is, I wish you the winning of her. May she be…worthy of you, my son."

Something large and unswallowable lodged in Gerard's throat. He nodded. And to make his feet move, he told himself that this need not be the last time. His father was a prisoner! Whether Gerard ever came again or not was not Rob Weatherill's decision to make.

Reaching out, he did place his hand briefly on his father's shoulder. And then he edged around him, stopping just before he opened the door. "Goodbye for the present, Father. Oh, and perhaps I should mention, look out for one Roger Merritt. He has some grudge against you. He mentioned his wife."

His father only chuckled. "The fool. I have no designs on his wife, though she's a pretty thing whom he doesn't deserve."

Perhaps it was the after-effect of their unexpected moment of rapport, but Gerard heard himself blurt, "She's—Mrs. Merritt, that is—it so happens that she's sister to the…one I told you about."

"Is she indeed?" The older Weatherill's eyes lit with something of their old sparkle.

"Yes. That is the other reason I am here again—to see if anything might be done there, to help."

"Gerard Weatherill, white knight." His father's words were mocking, but the son might almost have called the smile which accompanied them fond. "Well, you go and rescue Mrs. Merritt, son, and deposit her at your lady's feet. After all, ‘faint hearts never won etc. etc.' And never mind about Merritt bearing a grudge against me. I won a little money from him. He thought it personal, but I was only collecting the taxes due on his folly. Nothing to do with the young lady at all." Rob Weatherill scratched his head thoughtfully and then shrugged. "I suppose I did unwittingly cross him in regard to another lady friend, but could I help it if she preferred me? Nah, forget about him."

Descending the dark staircase from the first gallery to the hall gallery, Weatherill faintly heard Great Tom from St. Paul's striking the hour, and he could only hope Mrs. Merritt would still be found in the chapel.

The square and spare chapel was not entered from the noisy and dirty galleries but from the outer courtyard or racquet ground, and he picked his way to the door, through the usual crowd of unfortunates of every description, paying no attention to the two hulking men with caps pulled low, one bearded and one not, loitering by the entrance. The Fleet was full of loiterers, after all, hulking and otherwise.

"That the one?" said the first.

"Aye, that's him," answered the second.

Light slanted through the three windows in the chapel's left wall, the center one arched as a decorative concession, and when his eyes adjusted he inspected the few people scattered in the pews. It was impossible to pick her out from the back, so Weatherill walked slowly up the short aisle, glancing left and right, and it was she who spied him first, half raising a gloved hand to signal to him.

"I feared you would not come after all," she whispered, when Weatherill was sitting in the pew before her. "But I waited because—I have decided I will go. Not right away, but on Thursday morning because Wednesday is my husband's birthday. I told him I would only be gone for a time and that I would find work when I was in Oxfordshire, however I could, to help pay our debts."

"And did he agree to these measures?" Gerard asked, his voice barely above a rumble.

She was silent. Long enough that he peered over his shoulder to ensure she was still there.

"He was not pleased," she admitted. "He was so displeased and so…intoxicated yesterday that I did not dare mention it until he had slept for some hours. Not that the delay made him more amenable. It was more that I had time to think about it, and I have decided it will be for the best. For Roger, for my family, and—for me."

Weatherill's relief betrayed itself with a smile, and then he did turn to look at her, but she gave a sharp shake of her head. "No, please—we must not know each other. Roger is not usually a suspicious person, but it is another regrettable effect of the gin. How I hate gin with all my soul! Therefore I pray you will forgive him and make allowances for him. But we had better not be seen talking, and certainly not traveling together!"

"I understand, Mrs. Merritt. Have no fear. I have made the arrangements, and my old friend and landlady Mrs. Bundicomb will be prepared to meet you at the gate, so that you may catch the early coach. I have a note here which I will leave on the bench, enclosing the coach fare and indeed a little extra to hire the Angel Inn's cart to take you from Oxford on to Iffley."

"Should I write to my mother, that she might expect me?"

"Let us save them the pennies of postage," he answered, "for it is likely I will reach Oxfordshire before you, though if my remaining errand in town delays me until Thursday, I will take an outside seat, and we need not acknowledge each other. In fact, if I might ask you, Mrs. Merritt—would you not mention my part in all this, if you can help it? You might merely say you met with a…benefactor. I will certainly tell your family myself at the appropriate time, but for the sake of my position I would rather the Deres knew nothing of my being here."

"Of course," she promised. "That makes perfect sense, and I would hate to do you an ill turn, after all your kindness to us. To me and to my family."

"Farewell, then. And we will meet again in Iffley."

Rising, he slipped from the pew, and with a quick glance to make sure she was not observed, Jane snatched up the folded note left behind.

He emerged into the racquet ground, not ten yards from the chapel steps, when iron arms seized him from behind, wrestling him back into the narrow gallery passage, one grimy hand pressed to his mouth to muffle his protests.