Chapter 18

For nothing is secret, that shall not be made manifest; neither any thing hid, that shall not be known and come abroad.

— Luke 8:17 , The Authorized Version (1611)

The village of Iffley was too small for a circulating library, so it was not until the Sunday after Mr. Weatherill's departure that Adela first heard of the book which dropped from a clear sky like a cannonball, rolling for several days before its explosion threatened to demolish the Barstows' carefully constructed new life.

"There isn't a copy to be had in all Oxford," a parishioner with a goatish wisp of beard declared to the usual clutch of dons, fellows, and university affiliates in the churchyard of St. Mary the Virgin after the service. "I looked in Donwell's, Clairworth's, and even that old stand by Nixon's. With Napoleon's army occupying Egypt, this may be the closest any Englishman comes to seeing the place for himself, so, as one of the booksellers phrased it, the books have wings and move as fast as he can stack 'em."

"What book would that be, Dr. Lane?" asked the rector.

" Antiquities of Egypt by an Anonymous Oxford Scholar."

"It must be a hoax," said Mrs. Terry at her husband's side, "for I never heard of any Oxford scholar willing to publish his findings anonymously, lest someone else take the credit. ‘Anonymous' will probably turn out to be some imaginative Welsh blacksmith who has never gone beyond the Severn River, much less set foot in Egypt."

Unsurprisingly, several of the Oxford scholars surrounding her took umbrage at her joke, and an awkward pause followed.

"Della," spoke up Mrs. Barstow, hoping to get them over the difficulty, "speaking of Welshmen, what was that book your father was reading, before his health made it too difficult for him? Wasn't that set in Wales? We never did finish it."

"Yes, it was a story which took place in Caernarvon," answered Adela, "A novel. But I think the author was neither Welsh nor a blacksmith because her name was Emily Clark. Papa said it was full of the gothic and exotic, and I remember him rather enjoying the book. I wonder what happened to it."

"That settles it," pronounced Mrs. Terry. "Mrs. Emily Clark may not be a blacksmith, but if she prefers the gothic and exotic, she has now turned her attentions to Egypt."

Reluctant chuckles met this, but Mr. Furnival wagged a finger. "Now, Mrs. Terry, we know you love a good joke, but by all reports this work of scholarship is the genuine article, neither a fiction nor a mere restatement of Pococke's Description of the East or Norden's Travels in Egypt and Nubia . Indeed, if you ask me, I think we can all guess who wrote it."

Furnival waited until he had everyone's attention before announcing, "Why, William Keele, of course. It has to be. Weatherill said he did in fact travel in Egypt, digging in the sand and sketching whatever he unearthed. The only question was whether he could ever make anything of the years of notes he gathered. Antiquities must be Keele's masterwork, completed at long last."

This guess produced a miniature uproar amongst his auditors, but finally one piped above the clamor: "Ask Weatherill! He will know. Lord Dere, where is your tutor? He must settle the question."

"Unfortunately Mr. Weatherill was called to town to visit his ailing father," Mrs. Markham Dere struck in before the baron could answer.

"Rotten luck," said Furnival.

"Rotten luck about Mr. Weatherill senior, indeed," agreed Mrs. Terry with a mischievous smile, "but we are rather enjoying having a house full of boys at lesson time, aren't we, Mr. Terry? Mr. Terry has taken on Peter Dere and Gordon Barstow in the tutor's absence, you see."

"What is the name of this coveted book again, Lane?" asked her husband. "If it contains any plates or maps, I imagine my pupils would enjoy it."

"Pooh!" laughed Mrs. Terry. "If ever we manage to secure a copy, I suspect your pupils will never get a chance to look at it because you will be so busy poring over it!"

"I've got it!" exclaimed Dr. Lane, snapping his fingers and turning to the baron's niece. "Mrs. Dere, if you are corresponding with Weatherill, might you ask him to fetch a copy or two? He might even get Keele to sign the title page, if the man will own it."

Mrs. Dere frowned, more in doubt than in anger, and she glanced at her uncle. "I'm afraid I don't know where he may be reached. Did he leave a direction with you, sir?"

"None at all," admitted Lord Dere. "An oversight. He was in such a hurry, though, that I did not like to burden him with writing to us. He is a responsible young man. I am certain that he will either return shortly, or he will write to us unbidden, to let us know the state of affairs. Then I assure you we will make your request, Dr. Lane, Mr. Terry."

Dr. Lane bowed, his whisp wagging. "Ah, well. One doesn't like to trouble a man when his father is unwell. Ten to one he will not even see Keele while he is in London. We will have to wait, like every other would-be Egyptian scholar in England."

Had the matter ended there, Adela would have forgotten all about it, except to speculate with the rest of them when Mr. Weatherill would return to Iffley. There, she was on tenterhooks, wondering with each passing day if the Deres had heard from him. She even considered asking the postmistress Mrs. Lamb, before deciding arousing the woman's curiosity was more trouble than it was worth. Surely if the baron or Mrs. Dere received a letter from Mr. Weatherill, Mrs. Lamb would mention it unprompted.

On Thursday, however, Adela did at last learn something of the absent tutor, and well might she have wished it unlearned. She was with her mother and Sarah in the kitchen, pickling the last of the season's grapes, when the manservant Irving appeared with a bundle in his hands.

"Mrs. Lamb sent this with her boy Nick, madam," he explained, "because she said Miss Barstow did not go for the post this morning."

"Heavens! What can it be?" asked Mrs. Barstow, wiping her hands on her apron.

The package was soon freed from its wrapping of brown paper and sheets of newspaper to reveal two leatherbound volumes comprising Ianthe?, or the flower of Caernarvon by Emily Clark.

"It's from the baron," Sarah read the accompanying card from Donwell's bookshop in Oxford. "Isn't that just like his thoughtfulness, to remember you mentioning Mr. Barstow's book?"

Mrs. Barstow gave a rueful smile, running her finger across the title. "How kind of him. We will take turns reading it, and if we think Lord Dere might enjoy it, we will read it to him as well. What do you say, Adela?"

But Adela was staring openmouthed at the crumpled newspaper in her hands.

"What is it, Della?" asked her mother. "Bad news? Does it say something about Jane—or Roger?"

"No, no," Adela reassured her hastily, squeezing her arm. Something terrible indeed would have had to happen to the Merritts, to get them written up in the Morning Post . But this might hardly be better!

Without a word she pushed aside the stone jars and grape pickle ingredients to spread the newspaper across the table. Then she indicated a column with her finger.

"‘Author of Antiquities of Egypt revealed,'" read Sarah. "Oh! Look—Dr. Lane guessed correctly. It was indeed Mr. William Keele, formerly of Oxford University and—and—" Breaking off, her fingers flew to her lips, and she gaped at Adela.

"And what?" cried Mrs. Barstow, looking from one to the other before leaning over the newspaper to learn for herself. "…So so so…‘Mr. William Keele, formerly of Oxford University and, unknown to the scholarly world, more recently the inhabitant of a far less prestigious institution. To wit, the Fleet Prison.' What? The Fleet Prison ? Impossible!"

"Impossible," echoed her daughter-in-law. "Utter nonsense. If his mentor had been imprisoned for debt, how would Mr. Weatherill then have even known him?"

"Exactly," agreed Mrs. Barstow briskly. "Mr. Weatherill said Mr. Keele was a London schoolmaster! What rubbish they print nowadays. Why, anyone might say anything now, about anybody!"

"But Mr. Weatherill did not say where in town the school was," whispered Adela.

Mrs. Barstow and Sarah regarded her reproachfully, knowing Adela's opinion would carry weight and perhaps force them to change their minds.

As one, the three bent their heads to read on.

And there it was in black and white. Mr. Keele—Mr. Weatherill's Mr. Keele—had been imprisoned for debt in the Fleet for twenty years, where he had "taught fellow prisoners' children for pence while working endlessly on his magnum opus, the newly published Antiquities of Egypt , the advance for which had finally allowed him to pay his longstanding debts." There was more: the nature of Keele's debts, the rapid sales of the first volume and clamor for the second, how the author's chequered history had first come to light, and so forth, but when Adela's eye reached the bottom of the column with no mention of Mr. Weatherill, she allowed her whirling thoughts to spin off.

"But if Mr. Keele's school was for ‘fellow prisoners' children,'" Sarah puzzled, "how did Mr. Weatherill come to teach there?"

"Mr. Keele was also his teacher, according to Mr. Weatherill," Adela said dully.

"It could be that the school took additional charity students from the general London poor," suggested Mrs. Barstow. "Those who were not children of prisoners, I mean."

"It could be," her daughter replied, the doubt in her voice undeniable. "But what shame would there have been, had he merely been poor, Mama? Everyone could see he was poor. Before he got his new clothing he might as well have carried a signboard advertising the fact. But there was always something…else there, that he did not like to talk about."

"Della," said Sarah, "can you possibly be saying you think Mr. Weatherill himself was once a debtor, imprisoned in the Fleet?"

"That doesn't make any sense," Mrs. Barstow objected. "If he was taught by this Keele, he might have been Gordy's age. How would someone Gordy's age be arrested for debt?"

"It had to be his father," Adela frowned. "Mr. Weatherill must have—grown up in the Fleet! Where he was taught in Mr. Keele's school and eventually came to teach himself."

"Yes, that fits," Sarah agreed. "Only—why do you suppose he stayed so long, if he himself had his freedom? I would guess he is nearly five and twenty."

"He had a younger sister," Adela murmured. "Who died. He must have stayed until she was—no longer there to care for."

For a minute the Barstow women were silent, each marveling or fretting over such a revelation, until at last Mrs. Barstow began to clear away the books and their wrappings and Sarah to help her. But Adela sat on a stool, her arms wrapped about her middle.

"How can he possibly return to Iffley?" she asked them. "You know Mrs. Dere will be fit to murder him when she learns this. When she learns he has hidden such a thing. That he presumed, with such a history, to teach the heir to Perryfield! It need hardly be said that he will be dismissed. Disgraced. Turned out, without a character or a penny."

Her companions said nothing, their pursed lips and creased brows admitting their agreement. Yes, Mrs. Dere would do all those things.

Sarah stirred the grape pickle with distressful vigor, clicking her tongue, while Mrs. Barstow folded the offending newspaper over and over until it was too thick to continue. Then she set it aside, where the tight folds instantly sprang apart, so that it blossomed like a poisonous flower.

"Poor Mr. Weatherill," Mrs. Barstow sighed, shuddering when she saw the "Author of Antiquities " headline again. "He was so very kind to us regarding Jane, even if nothing came of it. And Gordy will be sorry to see him go."

"Do you suppose, if Mr. Weatherill's father was truly ailing, that he is even now visiting him there ?" Sarah wondered.

Another silence.

Then Adela leaped from the stool and began untying her apron. "Where is Frances? I must go at once to Perryfield."

"Perryfield?" echoed her mother. "Do you intend to break the news, Della?"

"Don't you see? We must— I must—get to Lord Dere before anyone else. If Mrs. Dere reaches him first, she will have her way. She will convince him to—to ruin Mr. Weatherill! I must get there first. Sarah, get me a bottle of the elderberry wine to bring them."

"But we already sent Mrs. Dere some," Sarah reminded her, disappearing into the pantry nonetheless.

"That's right. Never mind it, then." Adela snapped her fingers. "Mama, quickly—write a note thanking him for the books, and I will deliver that instead."

"But what can you possibly say to him, Della, that would prevail over Mrs. Dere?" Mrs. Barstow asked, even as she scrambled to obey. "I am sorry to say that, while I do not believe she should be vindictive, I imagine most employers in her place would dismiss him as well."

"Oh, Mama, this is no time to be reasonable ," wailed Adela. "If we do not stand up for our friends, who will stand up for us when our own troubles are discovered? When they learn about Jane's elopement and disgrace?"

"Very well, very well, if you think it will do any good. Heaven knows I like the young man very much, and one can hardly blame him for wanting to escape blame for the sins of his father."

Though Mrs. Barstow usually prided herself on her elegant penmanship, on this occasion, with her oldest daughter in such a nettle and Frances soon complaining and running about and Maria asking questions and the baby starting to cry because of the uproar, only a scrawled couple lines could be managed before her girls were out the door.

"But what is happening, Della?" Frances panted, one hand on her bonnet while she sped to keep up.

"I will tell you, but we can't stop to talk about it," her sister replied maddeningly. Not that her warning did any good, for it seemed Frances must come to a complete halt as each detail was shared and ask a thousand questions, until Adela had to seize her by the hand and pull to keep them moving. But at last, when they reached the arch in the Perryfield wall, and everything had been explained and understood and sufficiently marveled at, Frances' new question became, "But what do you mean to do about it, Della?"

Then it was Adela's turn to stop, so suddenly that Frances stumbled to avoid colliding with her. Her color was high, whether with exertion or from other causes. "I mean to outwit Mrs. Dere."

"Yes, of course, but how ?"

"You know how."

Frances' mouth popped open. "You mean—you still intend to marry Lord Dere?"

"Hush!" hissed her sister as she glanced around.

"There's nobody here," said Frances stoutly. "No one could possibly have maintained the pace you set. I must say I thought you had given up your plan. You are always amiable around the baron, and he seems to like you as well as he likes any of the rest of us, but no more than that."

Adela groaned. "Frances, I know I have been half-hearted about winning Lord Dere," she conceded. "That is—I know I have not accomplished much beyond making myself generally agreeable. But it does not therefore follow that I have given it up. In fact, I am grateful you were so diligent in doing your assigned task, for I think it plain that Mrs. Dere likes you the best of any of us."

Pleased by this praise, Frances plumed herself a little. "She does prefer me, doesn't she? It wasn't very delightful work, I assure you. I had always to smile until my face hurt and to agree with every opinion she shared, even if I didn't agree one bit. I was going to ask you soon if I could leave off, but it seems I can't?"

With a vehement shake of her head, Adela said, "No. I'm afraid not. Please! Although I have left it so long and not worked as hard at it as you, today I must bring it to a head. A crisis."

"But why today, of all days, Della? What has changed? Why should learning Mr. Weatherill's secret make you so determined?"

Why indeed.

Adela wrung her hands, having no desire to bare her innermost heart to Frances' scrutiny. "Look here," she said, in the steadiest voice she could command, "Mr. Weatherill has been a friend to us, and the idea that I might use any sway I have for his benefit certainly plays a part, but only a part. It served as a prompt—a reminder. A nudge to act."

"So what will you do? And what am I to do, while you are doing it?"

"We must find Lord Dere, wherever he may be this morning, and then, Frances, if Mrs. Dere is there, you must get her away and keep her away."

"Are you going to propose to him?" squeaked her younger sister, giving a little hop and clapping her gloved hands.

"I don't know yet, you wretched girl! A young lady can't very well propose to a gentleman."

"But will you throw yourself at his feet?" Frances persisted. "Oh, how I wish I could watch! If Mrs. Dere is from home, may I?"

"No! I don't think I could bear it. I couldn't bear anyone being there. I can hardly bear the thought of Lord Dere being there! But come, we had better move along, or my courage will altogether fail."

In truth, it was already failing. Should she throw herself at the baron's feet? She would have to give some reason for doing so, but if she confessed her family's failings, and he did not respond by raising her up and throwing the cloak of his name about the Barstows, then what would happen? The best she could hope for would be that he might still overrule Mrs. Dere's objections to his cousin's family out of pity, suffering them to continue, reduced and humiliated, in Iffley Cottage, but how then could Adela ever hold up her head again? How could she live the rest of her days seeing the baron two or three times per week, having tried and failed to win him?

But ready or not, the moment was upon her, for as the sisters turned in at the gate, there stood the baron Lord Ranulph Dere on the lawn, the great house of Perryfield gleaming behind him in the oblique autumn sun.