Chapter 1

He must needes go, whom the dyvel dryveth.

—Thomas More, The confutacyon of Tyndales answere (1532)

It was her sister's elopement which finally broke her.

Miss Barstow, eldest child of the Reverend and Mrs. Gordon Barstow, had managed to survive the successive deaths within a twelvemonth of her ailing father and her beloved brother, as well as the defection of the young curate she thought to marry. She had survived, as well, the impending loss of their home to the new parson and had even succeeded in securing a new roof to shelter them by appealing to her mother's cousin, whom no one but her mother even remembered. And lastly she had not only survived, but had organized , the visits of the bailiff to make his inventory, and the remover, to pack up what little remained.

All these things Adela Barstow had done. With tears, yes, but tears she managed to hide from the rest of the family.

But on the morning when the Barstows were to climb into the diligence which would take them from Twyford to Henley on the first leg of their journey, Adela found Jane and her portmanteau gone, with only a note pinned to her pillow.

"‘Dear Della,'" read the hasty scribble, "‘you will never forgive me, and yet I beg you to. I have gone with Roger. I love him, you understand, and if I were to accompany you all into Oxfordshire, I would never see him again. I know Papa did not approve of him, thinking him too wild, but my Roger promises me he has only been adrift because he had nothing to anchor him in life. When we return from Scotland, he plans to throw himself on his aunt's mercy and see if she will not purchase him an army commission. Do not fear for me, Adela, and tell my mother what you can to comfort her. Who knows? Perhaps if fortune smiles upon Roger and me, I may one day have something to give in support of our poor family. In the meantime this will spare you the expense of keeping me. I know you will be their rock, Della. And only think how much better seven will fit in Iffley Cottage than eight! All my love. Your sister, Jane.'"

Adela fainted.

Fortunately she had been sitting on their shared bed at the time, so that, when she returned to consciousness and saw the familiar beamed ceiling, her first thought was, "Thank heavens! It was only a dream."

But it was no dream. First she noticed that the beams were running crosswise to her usual morning view. And then that she lay atop the coverlet, not beneath it.

"No," she moaned, sitting up. "No, no, no. She cannot have done this." But there was the note, fallen from her hand, and there was Jane's announcement in black and white.

She was gone. With the rakish Roger Merritt.

The next thing Adela knew, the tears she had held back for weeks and months welled up. Brimmed. And then overflowed with such force she did not know if she could ever stop them again. Nor were they silent. They were accompanied by wails she could not stifle to save her life. Wails which began somewhere in her stomach and swelled and spiraled, bursting forth at last with alarming loudness. It felt and sounded like the end of the world, and Adela might have gone on crying until such time if, in one of the gaps between her racking sobs, her ear had not caught shuffling and whispering and hushing.

Jamming a ruthless fist against her mouth, she screwed her eyelids tight, and, with shoulders shaking from the effort, gradually choked herself into silence, listening again. And though she heard nothing this time, she felt them there.

At last, with a sigh, she rolled onto her side and cast bleary eyes at the doorway, where every last remaining member of the Barstow family crammed, regarding her in dismay. Her mother Mrs. Barstow, soft blue eyes wide, hands to her lips. Her sister-in-law Sarah, brow furrowed, jogging baby Bash in her arms. Adela's second sister Frances peering over the shoulders of the two widows, while youngest sister Maria tried to poke her head between. Even Adela's younger brother Gordon was trying to wriggle his way into the room, the white lapdog Poppet clutched to him.

"Let me, Mama," insisted Gordon. "Poppet will comfort her."

"But Della, you never cry," nine-year-old Maria declared.

With a squirm and a yelp, Poppet writhed his way to freedom and bounded forward to paw at Adela's slippered foot, followed by the rest of them. It was like the first crack in the dike before the whole structure collapsed, Adela thought later, for her own tears were lost in the floods of the others'. After some minutes of this collective mourning, even Poppet began to whimper in sympathy, but his contribution recalled them to themselves enough that they smiled ruefully at each other, rubbing at their faces and digging for handkerchiefs.

"Della, darling," her mother sighed, "you have been so strong for us all! I am almost glad to see you weep at last. For what family was ever asked to bear so much in so little time? First Sebastian and then—your father—and now to leave Twyford—to go—"

"It is not only that, as if all that were not enough," hiccuped Adela, her voice breaking again. "Mama, you must brace yourself because I am afraid—I am afraid there is yet one thing more to bear."

"One thing more?" gasped Mrs. Barstow. "Has something come from Lord Dere? May we no longer have Iffley Cottage?"

Adela shook her head at this, dashing a hand at her eyes. But she could not— could not —bear to share the thunderbolt herself and therefore thrust Jane's note at her brother's widow. With trepidation, Sarah hitched Bash on her hip and read.

"What is it, Sarah?" Mrs. Barstow breathed.

Her daughter-in-law sank to the bed, her stricken gaze meeting Adela's. Then, with what gentleness she could, she imparted the shocking news of Jane's elopement.

Sarah was at once swallowed in a tide of questions and exclamations from Frances, Maria, and Gordon, but Mrs. Barstow only went very, very white. So white that it effected an immediate, if temporary cure on Adela, who sat up to gather her mother in her arms.

"Sit, Mama."

"She is ruined," whispered Mrs. Barstow.

"I hope not," Adela replied. "I think Mr. Merritt will marry her." And again, when her mother shook her head, wordless and shocked: "He will, Mama. He must marry her. He could not treat a gentleman's daughter so."

"But there is no longer any gentleman to protect her." Mrs. Barstow choked. With an effort she raised a shaking hand to grasp Adela's shoulder. "But even if he does marry her, what will become of them, having only the two hundred pounds a year from his aunt? Suppose the aunt is so angry she cuts him off entirely?"

"I don't know. She wouldn't, would she? The elopement is scandalous, but Jane is a good girl. Jane will win her, Mama."

"I hope so, darling. Heaven help us! Heaven help my poor Jane. I am glad her father is not here to see this. Nor Sebastian. Sebastian would be compelled to pursue them and—and—" she broke off, but each younger Barstow remembered Sebastian's high courage and protectiveness and shuddered. Yes, better that Sebastian never knew about this either.

"Della, do you think we ought to write to Lord Dere to inform him?" her mother asked.

"What could Lord Dere do for us?" returned Adela.

"Nothing in the way of help," Mrs. Barstow answered. "I only meant, is it right of us to come, when this has happened? Would we still be welcome, with this scandal now hanging over us?"

"I—I don't know."

And she didn't. But how could they even consider telling Lord Dere and risk the possibility of him rescinding his offer? What would become of them then?

"It is too late," Adela made excuses. "We go today. He expects us. It is too late for thunderbolts. If—if he asks us to leave when he learns the truth, then we will have to face it, but perhaps he will take pity on us. It is always more difficult to—be heartless—face to face."

There were a thousand other questions. A hundred thousand! All of them to be raised and fretted over and despaired of, but none to be answered. Not that they did not try. Even without Jane, the Barstows were so numerous that, for several portions of their journey into Oxfordshire, the other passengers chose outside seats. And on those occasions, whenever the younger children happened to doze, Mrs. Barstow and Adela and Sarah whispered and whispered.

In the best of all possible worlds, Roger Merritt and Jane Barstow would make all haste to Gretna Green and be married by week's end. They would then proceed into Shropshire where Mr. Merritt's aunt (whose name the Barstows did not even know) would greet the match with unexpected joy, perhaps inviting them to take up residence with her in her modest home and telling her nephew and niece that they must consider all she had as their own. Jane would then write to them of how Mr. Merritt had metamorphosed into a quiet man who enjoyed quiet pleasures, and, after some years, there would be two children and no more, so that they might always live within their means.

But when they thought of Roger Merritt, dashing and reckless, full of jests and fond of sport, such an outcome seemed unlikely, if not altogether impossible.

"He loves her, however," Sarah tried to comfort them. "I'm sure of it. They will marry. You know how…lively my own Sebastian was before we wed."

Mrs. Barstow seconded this, though her dear son had not been a thing like Roger Merritt, except perhaps in his enjoyment of riding and shooting, and Sebastian's years in the navy gave him a discipline Roger Merritt utterly lacked. Thus the two widows reassured each other, however, for remembering Sebastian Barstow was a more pleasant activity, though bittersweet, than dwelling on Jane's folly.

It was left to Adela through the long hours to consider what, if anything could be done. How very vulnerable they were, with no male relative to champion them! No one to pursue the couple in hopes of discovering Jane, or to take her away before it was too late. No one to demand that Merritt do what was proper, or to punish the man if he refused.

No one.

The Barstow ladies were fatherless, husbandless, brotherless. And the only two Barstow gentlemen left to them were ages seven and six months, respectively.

The idea first came to her in Henley, when they transferred from the Twyford coach to the Oxford-bound one, this diligence quite jammed with passengers, including clergymen and fellows of the colleges, making private conversation impossible.

At first Adela wondered if this cousin of her mother's, this Lord Ranulph Dere, might be enlisted to aid them. If they managed to keep Jane's elopement secret until they proved what good tenants and respectable people they were, might he not then be trusted with the information? Trusted not to expel them and even to help them find the couple? And if Jane and Merritt were not yet married, surely a baron could exert his influence, even one as old as Adela's mother guessed. A baron was a baron, after all.

If the Barstows could win Lord Dere, flatter him, ingratiate themselves, could he be brought to bestir himself on their behalf?

From there it was but a short step to her next conclusion: if Lord Dere could somehow be bound by a nearer tie than mere "distant cousin" or the still chillier "benefactor," his charity toward them would accordingly metamorphose into obligation. If he became, say, a husband or father to them, charity would become Duty.

Adela scrutinized her mother under her lashes. Mrs. Barstow had dozed at last, her head fallen against Sarah's shoulder. Could it be done? Could Mrs. Barstow save them? They had not reached Nettlebed, however, before Adela regretfully discarded the possibility. Her mother would never.

It was not that Mrs. Barstow boasted no lingering charms. Her stature was elegant, her features regular, her hair only sprinkled with silver. But her widowhood was too recent, and she had been devoted to her husband. Adela could not imagine even suggesting the idea to her without shattering her mother's careful composure like glass.

Still less could it be asked of the second Barstow widow Sarah. Beg Sarah to forget her young, dashing naval husband for a man of nearly sixty, in order to secure the welfare of her many, many in-laws? Poor Sarah was already sharing her tiny pension with them, though by rights she should be saving it for herself and Bash. No. Sarah could not save them either.

Then I must do it , Adela thought.

Something clutched her about the midsection at the realization, making it difficult to breathe and driving her heart into her throat.

Marry a strange lord old enough to be her father? Older, even, for Mr. Barstow had been but four and fifty at his death.

I must. How can we go on, otherwise? It was not just Jane's elopement—that was simply another nail in the coffin. The largest and most final nail, perhaps, but heaven knew there had been plenty of nails to begin with. Adela was grateful already to Lord Dere for the offer of the Iffley cottage. It was smaller than the rambling Twyford parsonage, but of necessity would fit them, and the baron charged a rent which would hardly cover its maintenance. He also had found two servants for them, relations of those at Perryfield, and offered to pay the manservant's wages, that he might assign him additional tasks required to keep the cottage in good repair. To these gifts was added another equally precious: Gordon might share his great-nephew's tutor! Adela had been lying awake nights wondering how her younger brother might be educated—he might study hard enough to win a scholarship, but even if he succeeded, after losing both Mr. Barstow and Sebastian, how could the Barstow women bear to send Gordon away to school?

So far Lord Dere has been generous and kind-hearted. If not for these boons, who knows what would become of us, with only Mama's little legacy and Sarah's widow's pension? As it was, they must watch and count and scrape every penny.

Yes, Lord Dere looked to be kind and generous and—and wasn't that what mattered in a husband? Not youth or looks or dash. Only see how such things had turned Jane's head and led her to disaster! Not only her, but all of them, if Jane's misadventure became known.

But Jane must have thought of that, Adela realized—Jane must have known that her family's instant departure from Twyford guaranteed that the scandal could be dampened, if not altogether kept secret. Who in Oxfordshire would note Jane's absence (besides Lord Dere), the Barstows being complete strangers to the place? They would appear in the community, all in some degree of mourning and all female , save Gordon and baby Bash , and perhaps one young lady more or less would not even be noticed.

But Lord Dere would know one of them was missing…Lord Dere and the niece living with him. Adela recalled uneasily a line from the baron's last letter: "No need to mention the terms of the lease nor the servants' wages to my niece Mrs. Markham Dere. Having lived at the cottage herself, she will have strong opinions as to the ‘proper way of doing things.'"

Frowning, Adela ran a gloved finger along a crack in the leather-covered bench of the diligence. How could she have forgotten the opinionated niece? A person who felt strongly about the "proper way of doing things" would most certainly deem elopements reprehensible. And elopements which might or might not end in actual marriage even worse. Mrs. Dere might even persuade the baron that he must put utmost distance between scandal and their own exalted family. Suppose Mrs. Markham Dere refused to associate with the Barstows, or insisted they be driven from Iffley? Oh, heaven!

Even if the Barstows succeeded in keeping their secret, such a person as Mrs. Dere would certainly object to any upstart dependent trying to worm her way into Lord Dere's heart, and Adela could hardly blame her. Such a May-December affair would not only reflect poorly on the baron, but it would threaten the inheritance of Mrs. Dere's own son.

Oh, my, my, my. How complicated things grew. Clearly Mrs. Markham Dere must be added to the task list for Adela. Such a person would need to be blinded or won over, or at least distracted from what was happening under her nose.

Her heart beating faster as anguish pressed upon her, Adela gave a desperate shake of her head and mentally pushed aside Mrs. Markham Dere for later consideration. Later, later. The baron was enough to deal with, for the present.

Adela tried to imagine him. Would he be heavy, old, gouty? Or wizened and gnome-like? Would she have to woo him through an ear trumpet? If so, she could hardly hope to do so without Mrs. Dere noticing.

Adela was young enough that she had never had to ask such questions before. Mr. Liddell the curate may not have been dashing, but he was youthful and sufficiently attractive, and Adela had thought she could well learn to love him. But he had chosen instead a bride who brought with her the promise of his very own living, and that had been that.

By the time they reached Shillingford, where they drank overpriced tea while waiting for the horses to be changed, Adela had formed her resolve. If she could at all manage it, she would marry Lord Dere.

"What is there to smile about?" demanded fifteen-year-old Frances crossly, rolling her shoulders and trying to stretch her back. "Between the jolts of the cart ruts and sitting between Gordy and Bash, it's impossible to know a moment's peace. At least you have some cushion where you sit. You ought to take a turn in my place."

Adela made a face at her. "I will, then. And you may sit beside the matron who smells of gingerbread and complains if anyone opens the window so much as a whisker." But she made an effort thereafter to school her features, lest she have to answer any questions. This must be her own secret, for everyone would try to talk her out of it, and then what would become of them?

Besides, in the face of such long odds, her smile had been more rueful than amused, for she had been thinking how curious it would be, to be Lady Dere, the wife of a baron!