Chapter 20

I give away my selfe for you, and doate upon the exchange.

— Shakespeare , Much Ado about Nothing, II.i.290 (1600)

He wanted, more than anything in the entire world, to be alone. To slap his hat on his head, don his greatcoat, and walk for days and days and days.

For weeks, even.

Or months.

He could walk to Scotland. Or the Arctic. Let the mud and rain and ice be what they were. He would walk anywhere where he would never have to speak to anyone again, never see anyone again. Never mind that the person he wanted least to speak to or to see, ever, ever again, was even now beckoning to him.

"Mr. Weatherill, if I might have a short word," murmured Miss Barstow, making the tiniest come-with-me motion again with her hand. "I know you have things to do, but if I might have just the one word with you—preferably out of doors. It's terribly important, I'm afraid."

Of course it was.

Would it be, I know you are surprised, but you have known almost from the beginning what I planned to do . Or was it, I don't know why you won't look at me—I thought we were friends .

Without a word, he followed, the blasted eye patch making the passage dim enough that he had to take care. Merritt's ruffians had managed to black his eye and plant numerous blows to his midsection and kicks to his legs before the racket of furniture being knocked about, combined with his own struggles and shouts, brought others to investigate.

"Get you gone," snarled Ruffian Number One as Gerard panted and nursed his jaw, "or more of the same will come to you."

"And don't ever talk to or come near or even look sidewise at Mrs. Merritt again, if you know what's good for you," put in Ruffian Number Two, pounding his fist into his open palm in a manner at which Gerard would have rolled his eyes, if the movement had not been made painfully inadvisable.

Like a fool, he slurred through his aching jaw, "Hope Merritt hasn't promised you payment for your efforts because you can go whistle for it. He hasn't a penny he doesn't spend on drink."

The ruffians roared (in vexed recognition, Gerard hoped), each sending home a parting blow before racing away. It was Quint who got him on his feet a few minutes later, when one of the idle onlookers mentioned the row to the turnkey at the gate.

"That Merritt will come to no good end," he grumbled, letting Weatherill lean against him as he escorted him down the steps and past the warden's house. "Been here so short a time, and he's already made the most worthless friends possible. I pity his poor wife."

Merritt's poor wife was the reason Weatherill had to follow the two Misses Barstow now, rather than stalking away to the hinterlands straight off, as his heart desired. But the moment they stood safely upon the lawn which rolled away before Perryfield, he said without preamble, "You will find Mrs. Merritt at Iffley Cottage when you return."

This entirely unexpected announcement staggered his two companions, and whatever speech of her own Miss Barstow had planned melted into the air.

" Jane ?" she gasped. "Can you mean my sister Jane?"

"Jane is home?" yelped Miss Frances.

"How do you know this?" "Is Roger with her?" "Is this your doing, sir?"

It was childish, but Weatherill addressed his answers to Miss Frances and to the crown of Miss Barstow's bonnet. "Yes, I refer to your sister Mrs. Roger Merritt. She is in Iffley. Because the same coach which carried me from town brought her as well."

But this only led to a new spate of questions, and in spite of himself it moved him to hear the emotion in Miss Barstow's voice.

But she would not be Miss Barstow for much longer. She was now the future baroness Lady Dere, and how such a lofty creature felt about this or that was no longer any of his business.

Perhaps it never had been.

"No, Mr. Merritt is not with her," he said shortly. "I will explain how it all came about at some later date, but now I am sure you would like to hurry back to Iffley Cottage to share in the reunion. If you will excuse me…"

He managed to retreat some five yards before Miss Barstow gave a squeak. "Oh! Do wait, Mr. Weatherill—I quite forgot! The mention of Jane drove everything from my head. Frances, you go along, and I will catch up with you."

It was rather hard on Frances (or at least Frances thought so) that Della must always be dismissing her when very, very interesting conversations were taking place, but in this instance, the desire to see her second sister again (and before Della did!) took away the sting, and she trotted away directly.

"I am sorry about your eye," said Miss Barstow, when her sister was gone. "Does it still hurt?"

"It improves daily," he answered, hardening his heart against her. "What was it you wished to tell me?"

She made a little sound in her throat and looked down at the grass, drawing the toe of her boot back and forth, as if marking the gap which now separated them. "Yes. I will be quick. In short, as the baron told you, there was a great deal of interest in Mr. Keele's book while you were away. And then today by chance I saw something in the Oxford Journal about that same Mr. Keele, the author of Antiquities of Egypt . It said—it said that he had been for years…a prisoner in the Fleet."

Weatherill might have been carved from the same block of marble as Perryfield's cupid statues, so still did he hold, his gaze fixed on the flattened grass in the lawn where they had passed. She must have been holding her breath as well, for there was a long spell so quiet that he caught the clatter of something metal from the distant kitchens.

Then she expelled a shaky breath and said, "Mr. Weatherill, because I fear it will be a matter for general inquiry very soon, if not already, tell me—did you know Mr. Keele from his time in the Fleet?"

Like one preparing to peel back a bandage which should have been changed or removed long since, he shut his eyes. Every nerve stretched in preparation for the worst.

"I did."

"Ah." There was neither surprise nor triumph in the little sound. If anything, there was a note of…disappointment?

Then he could resist no longer, and he raised his eyes to her face. Her lovely, beloved face. So it had been disappointment he heard, for her lip trembled.

"Exactly," he said. "You understand now why I would prefer such a fact buried in obscurity. Who would enlist such a person to teach his children?"

"Was it your own debt that put you there?" she asked earnestly. "It cannot have been. You do not seem the profligate sort. The sort who would live beyond his means or try to elude creditors, so that they would be forced to bring a suit."

"It was not my own debt," he admitted. His gaze drifted away again, following his thoughts into the past. "It was my father's. He was imprisoned when I was very young so that I hardly remember any other…home. And Susanna, my sister, was born within the walls of the Fleet. It was only when I was old enough to assist Keele and earn modest wages that Susanna and I found our own lodgings outside the gate."

"And…your mother?"

"She died ten years ago, of the same illness which took Susanna."

There , he thought wryly. He had confessed more about himself in two minutes than he had in the whole course of his life. Not simply because it could no longer be concealed—then he might have said as little as he had to Miss Barstow's sister Mrs. Merritt—but because now, though it could avail him nothing, he wanted her to know him. He wanted to be seen .

"I am sorry for it," she said, lifting her palms to acknowledge the inadequacy of her words. "For…all of it."

"Yes. Thank you." His voice was rough, and he had to clear his throat. Having so long feared the blistering judgment of the world, he was wholly unprepared for—was undone by—the balm of understanding. The comfort of sympathy. To have warm brown eyes turned on him over the wreckage and to hear a sweet voice say, I am sorry for it .

Unable to put into words all that flooded him, his hand reached for hers.

But Miss Barstow failed to see the motion, for she was wrapping her arms about herself and lifting her chin with a new resolve.

"And I am sorry you did not feel you could speak of it, any of it," she went on, in a stronger voice. "Though of course you could not, any more than I could speak of my sister's trials. And I want you to know, Mr. Weatherill, that now you are safe. I mean to say, you need not fear losing your post over this."

If he had been on the point of drawing her into his arms, her last words overthrew the impulse. Nay, they operated like the wave of a fairy wand or a muttered abracadabra—banishing the fragile closeness Gerard had imagined between them.

His hand dropped.

"My post?" he echoed.

"Mrs. Markham Dere will make a great fuss, I do not doubt, but she will have to give way to me now. I will see to that."

Something was rising, unfolding, biting in his chest, and it had nothing to do with the bruises he had sustained from Merritt's bullies. "Ah yes," he said coldly, "you have achieved your aims. You have caught the baron and placed yourself out of harm's way. You and any whom you choose to protect."

Flushing scarlet at his tone, she retreated a step, and Weatherill had to stuff down a bullying instinct of his own, for he wanted to close the gap, seize her by the shoulders, and shake her till her hair tumbled down and her red lips begged for mercy.

"Yes," she said, scarcely audible. "I do not deny that I hoped to win Lord Dere's protection. You know I did. And why I did. We have argued about it before. But—he is a good man. A kind and generous one. And…women have chosen far worse husbands for far worse reasons. Therefore, be assured. In my friendship for you, I will make certain you keep your post."

"My post," he repeated derisively. "You think I still want this post? It was a stepping stone. And now if every last man Jack will know my disgraceful story, he will at least know as well my connection to the glorious William Keele, and perhaps celebrity will outweigh infamy. No, Miss Barstow. You and your intended husband and your intended niece-in-law may fill your precious post with the most spotless man in Christendom. As for me, I will advertise. I will go among new people without subterfuge."

"But—but surely we know you and will make allowances for you," she protested, her face falling. "And haven't you found Iffley and its inhabitants to your liking? Wouldn't you be sorry to leave it now, to begin all over again?"

The corners of his mouth turned down, twisting in bitterness. "Sometimes, Miss Barstow, a liar longs to breathe the air of truth. Or at least this liar does. There have been too many falsehoods told here, not all of them my own. If you will pardon me, I wish you a pleasant reunion with your sister."

Turning on his heel, he strode away.

But once he regained the house, after a nod to the footman, he took the stairs two at a time, as if pursued by hounds. No doubt Lord Dere still had his hands full explaining his engagement to Mrs. Dere, and Weatherill's presence was not yet required.

On the second floor he burst into his room to find a fire already lit and his bag carried up. He would unpack, though who could say how much longer he would be at Perryfield. He would draft his advertisement. He would write to Keele to congratulate him, in care of the publisher Murray. He would don his newer clothing again and toss these ones in the fire.

And yet the minutes passed, and Gerard did none of these things. Instead he leaned his elbow on the casement and stared out over the Perryfield grounds. Over the gravel paths of the gardens and the cupid statues and the flowerbeds.

Oh, Lord, what a fool he was. With his quixotic notion of rescuing Jane Merritt and returning to Iffley to be crowned with laurels by a blushing, grateful Miss Barstow. And then, after Miss Barstow covered him in kisses, to fall upon one knee and ask for her hand to be awarded to him in ten years ?

Fool, fool, fool.

When he had dashed off on his quest, he had not suspected Miss Barstow would pursue her own so vigorously in his absence.

Well, they had both succeeded. Or both lost. It was hard to tell the difference.

It was a very long time—long enough to require the lighting of the candles—before he seated himself at his writing table to draw up his advertisement.

And longer still before the words would come.

She hated him!

When Weatherill left Adela on the Perryfield lawn, marching away without a backward glance, hurt and astonishment rooted her to the spot for a full minute. It was only the appearance of a face in one of the windows—a curious footman or maid peeping out at her, wondering why she stood alone, stock-still—which restored her power of motion. And then what motion! If Frances had not had the head start of several minutes, Adela would have soon left her behind, for fury lent her wings.

She had given him sympathy. She had not censured him for what he could not help. Not held his past against him. But he had not shown her the same grace. Not a bit of it. Instead he had condemned her. Judged her.

She had used a woman's weapons with Lord Dere, yes, but what other means had she, to fight for her family? She could not pack up and leave, as Mr. Weatherill could. She could not pass herself off as a person with no past, as he had done. And he dared to judge her?

But what hurt Adela most of all was the knowledge that even her family's compounding perils had not been enough to force her hand with the baron. Still she had delayed; still she had dragged her feet.

No. In the end it had been for love of him , for Weatherill, that she acted so impetuously. For fear of harm coming to him that she at last took the irrevocable plunge.

And this was her thanks.

He showed her no gratitude. He offered her no understanding. Only harsh words and condescension. Her sacrifice tossed aside, unwanted and unvalued. And now here was Jane, home safely without Roger. And here she was, engaged to the baron!

Bending to pick up a clod of dirt, Adela hurled it with all her force at the stones of the Perryfield wall, wishing it was the back of horrible Mr. Weatherill's head.

Then she turned to demand of a trio of nearby sheep, "What are you looking at?"

The sheep wisely kept their counsel, maddeningly indifferent to her fury. One even cropped a mouthful of grass, of which half fell out as it chewed. But for some reason, the prosaic sight steadied her. She almost even laughed, though it was half a sob.

The world falls apart, but the sheep graze on.

Yes. The sheep grazed, the planet kept turning, and life must and would go on. Moreover, Jane waited for her at home. The thought of her sister came as a relief from her own unhappiness. Against all hope, Jane was somehow restored to them, and the Barstows would be all together again, as they had not been since the day before her sister's elopement.

Squaring her shoulders, Adela mentally shoved Mr. Weatherill and Lord Dere from her mind to be dealt with later. From habit the baron went easily enough; indeed, he was left behind before she had gone ten yards, their new engagement notwithstanding.

But Mr. Weatherill was another story. Somehow, in both her mind and—worse—her heart, Mr. Weatherill clung like a burr. Somehow, in both places, he had made himself quite at home.