Chapter 21

Why have you stol'n upon us thus! You come not

Like Caesar's sister: the wife of Antony

Should have an army for an usher, and

The neighs of horse to tell of her approach

Long ere she did appear.

— Shakespeare , Antony and Cleopatra, III.vi.1869 (c.1606)

"Jane!" The sisters fell into each other's arms, laughing and crying at the same time while the rest of the Barstows crowded about them, the younger ones jumping up and down and clapping with excitement and their mother openly weeping. Even Baby Bash bounced in his mother's arms, shaking plump fists. Only the flurry of the prodigal daughter's return could have made Mrs. Barstow and Sarah forget to ask Adela how she succeeded at Perryfield in her errand, but forget they did. Entirely.

"We told Jane not to tell us a single thing until you were home," crowed Maria over Poppet's wild barking. She was dancing around the pair of them as if they were a maypole.

"And I have not told a single thing either," said Frances archly.

"Then let us go inside now and hear it all," Mrs. Barstow commanded. "And Jane must eat and eat. She is far too thin."

Much as the two servants would have liked to hover about, once Jane's trunk and a mattress from the shed were stuffed into the blue-papered bedroom and a heaping tray of tea, biscuits, and sandwiches prepared, Reed and Irving were dismissed. For once the cramped parlor felt the perfect size, as Jane sat on the sofa with Outlaw on her lap, Gordon and Maria to either side and her mother directly across, keeping her teacup brimming. The others pulled their chairs near so as not to lose a word.

"Why did you not write to us, darling, to tell us you were coming?" asked her mother. "I am sure the baron would have let us send a carriage to the Angel Inn to fetch you. He is everything that is helpful."

Frances here gave a low cough, eyeing Adela, but her oldest sister pressed her lips together and gave the barest shake of her head. Wait. Later.

"I did not know I was coming myself, Mama, until it was too late to write. I thought Roger would like it best if I was there for his birthday on Wednesday, and I did not want to…ask permission too soon because—because one never knows what might come up. But a very kind old lady accompanied me down."

"And where has she gone? Why did you not invite her to stay with us?"

"She said she must return this very evening to London because she owns a lodging house."

"Is that where you are living in town? With this kind old lady?"

"Oh—no. Er—elsewhere."

"Well, never mind, then," Mrs. Barstow waved this away. "I wish her a pleasant return journey with all my heart. But did Roger stay in London because of his work?"

"He—er—he—" Jane stammered, her face flooding with color.

"What is it, my dear? Is he unwell?"

At that, Jane's face crumpled, and she buried her face in Outlaw's fur, much to the wriggling kitten's annoyance. It bolted away, leaving her to transfer all her wailing to a cushion Maria handed her, while the rest of the family writhed with helplessness.

"He's not unwell as you understand it," she cried, raising her blotched countenance at last. "You mean is he sick , Mama, and had he been, in the ordinary sense, I would never have left him. But it's—something else. It's that—he's drinking . Far too much, and all the time, and with money we do not have. Drinking and gambling and—and consorting with the worst sorts!"

She could not have astonished them more if she had announced Roger Merritt had taken to the high seas as a pirate. It was not that the Barstows drank no intoxicating liquors (both the Mrs. Barstows and Adela were passable brewers and winemakers), but they had little experience with anyone who drank for drinking's sake or who gambled for more than pin money at a card party. And while the Roger Merritt they had known had been more daring and dashing than others of their acquaintance, they had not dreamed he would come to this.

Had Mrs. Barstow not been so perplexed, she surely would have sent Maria and Gordon out of the room, but as it was she scarcely remembered they existed, and they were wise enough to shrink down and keep mum.

"He can't have squandered it all, in any event," she said uncertainly, "if there was money to spare for your coach fare."

Heaving a sigh, Jane shook her head. "No, Mama. There was no money, even for the coach fare. I had managed to put a little aside—I hid it in the mattress—but Roger found it. I had only pennies."

"Then however did you come?" wondered Sarah. "Did you borrow it?"

"I—did not borrow it, though I will repay the sum, if it is ever within my means, for I suspect my…benefactor…could ill spare the sum himself."

"A benefactor!"

Jane blushed. "Yes. A friend to both Roger and me whom we met in London. That is—he is a friend to Roger though Roger does not yet appreciate it."

"See?" said Mrs. Barstow. "All hope is not lost if, among Roger's new companions can be found this worthy benefactor. Excellent person, to give us back our Jane!" She poured her daughter a little more tea and pushed the sandwich plate toward her. "You must not yet despair over Roger, darling," she urged. "We must all make allowances, I suppose, for the disappointment he feels. Such a spirited young man, encountering his first true difficulties in life. His aunt's objections to your marriage must have quite overset him, and thus he gives vent to his feelings in this fashion. Though these are not—the means we would choose—perhaps when more time passes he will put these distractions aside."

Her daughter nodded miserably. "So I thought—so I hoped at first. And I did so want to be an encouraging, comforting sort of wife, like you always were to Papa, Mama, when he was ill and heavy-hearted. But when I tried to show sympathy to Roger, it only seemed to…irk him. I irked him. After a time it was impossible not to think he regretted marrying me."

"But…you cannot mean you have left him for good, my dear?"

"I don't know," answered Jane, her lip trembling. "Certainly I will return, if he wants me to, or if—you cannot afford to keep me."

"Of course we can afford to keep you," insisted Mrs. Barstow, for all the world as if they had been living high in Iffley with an army of servants and a wing of the cottage allocated to each of them. "You may stay as long as you like. As long as your sense of duty will allow. And Roger may join us, too, if he would prefer."

Adela could not smother a little squeak at this generous offer, but for the first time that day she almost laughed. Well, and why not? If Lord Dere must be made to bear his intended bride's eloping sister and the household tutor's imprisoned father, what more would one drunken, gambling, rowdy brother-in-law be? Good heavens.

"Roger will not join us," choked Jane.

Her mother regarded her with raised brows. "How certain you sound! Is it because his work will not permit his absence?"

"He has no work, Mama. How can he, as I have described him?"

"Then why do you say he will not join you, my dearest?"

Another, longer sigh escaped Jane, and she hung her head, hands clutched and uneasy. When she spoke again they had to bend to hear her. "He will not join me. He will not leave London. He cannot leave London, you see. Because—I'm afraid—he has been imprisoned."

"Imprisoned?" gasped Mrs. Barstow.

"F-For debt. He is in the Fleet."

A shriek escaped Frances at this revelation, and she clapped her hands to her mouth, goggling at Adela. No one but Adela took any notice of the girl's dramatic manner, however, because the rest of them were too horror-struck themselves. When Frances' shout faded away, a silence hung in the parlor, but only briefly. Then, like a soap bubble popping, it gave way to a din of questions and protests and more crying (from Jane and Mrs. Barstow). Poppet even woke from his nap to race around the room, barking.

Only Adela was silent. She could not have spoken to save her life because her throat was filled with a wild flutter. If she had not already been seated she would have collapsed.

The Fleet?

The Fleet Prison , in London?

Mr. Merritt now imprisoned where Mr. Weatherill had spent so much of his life?

And who was this "benefactor" Jane had referred to, one who could ill afford to share his funds with them?

It could not be.

And yet it surely must . Else why would Mr. Weatherill ride back to Oxfordshire in the same London coach? That could not have been mere chance, could it?

If he was the benefactor, how wretched I was to him! No, no—he was wretched to me. I did what I did to protect him, to be his benefactor, and he sneered at me. He called me a liar, in so many words, for catching at the baron. Desperately, Adela tried to hold on to her anger, but the more she grappled with it, the more it eluded her.

"—But tell us what it was like, Jane," Gordy was urging his sister, "living inside a prison!"

"Gordon Walter Barstow," his mother reprimanded him, "don't you see your sister is distressed?"

"I'm sorry, Jane," the boy said. "I don't mean to upset you. I only wondered—"

"Was it a Mr. Weatherill who helped you leave London?" Adela cut across her brother, her color high. "Jane, was a Mr. Weatherill your benefactor?"

Belatedly Mrs. Barstow and Sarah Barstow remembered the poor tutor's welfare, and Adela could almost hear the click in their brains when the same pieces fell into place and the same conclusions were drawn.

As for Jane, she inhaled so sharply she coughed, and the alarmed roundness of her tear-reddened eyes answered Adela's question even before she could reply. "He—ahem! ahem! He did not want it to be known directly. But yes, he said his name was Gerard Weatherill and that he was acquainted with my family and tutored Gordy. It was he who asked me to refer to him simply as a benefactor. He said he would tell you all himself because—well—I suspect for the same reason I did not like to tell you about Roger. For the shame of it. As it is, now he will think I could not be trusted with a confidence."

"We will not press you for details, then," her mother assured her, though Adela wanted nothing more in all her young life than to press Jane for details. What if Mr. Weatherill would not trouble to explain himself now, now that he and Adela had fallen out?

If he will not, I will tell him I will pump Jane for information, Adela vowed inwardly. Because if I do not learn all, I will scream. Gordy's curiosity will be nothing, in comparison to mine.

"But oh, how very kind of Mr. Weatherill, to help you and Roger, Jane," Sarah spoke up. "He has been more than an acquaintance to us, because we applied to him when we learned you were in London. We asked him to ask his friends there if they had word of you…"

She trailed off, but Adela took up the thread at once. "We learned already, Jane—or at least we deduced it—that Mr. Weatherill must himself be—er—familiar with the Fleet." In as few words as she could, she explained his connection to William Keele and Mr. Keele's recent fame. "So you see you needn't fear exposing Mr. Weatherill. The deed is already done, and not by you."

"Yes, yes, Adela," cried Mrs. Barstow. "And how ungrateful I have been, forgetting him in the midst of this! What a very good young man, to seek you out, Jane, when he went up to visit his father. Dear me—Della, Mr. Weatherill's father must still be a prisoner in the Fleet, if he met Jane and Roger by chance there."

Adela regarded Jane closely. "Is he, Jane? Did you ever hear of another Weatherill there? It is no violation of Mr. Gerard Weatherill's confidence to tell us because we have guessed all his story ourselves."

But it was not fear of being thought a babbler which made Jane hesitate. No, it was the apprehension she always felt when her husband's purported enemy was named.

"Yes," she confessed, shrinking. "Yes, there is a Robert Weatherill there."

Gordon whistled in awe. "My own tutor with a father in debtor's prison!" he exclaimed. "Wait till I tell Peter and Wardour and Ellis and Denver!"

"Gordon!" his older womenfolk turned on him as one.

"You mustn't!"

"Don't you dare say a word!"

"Gordy, I will snap you in two if you gossip about Mr. Weatherill," Frances threatened.

"All right, all right," he said, raising his hands in surrender. "Though if Weatherill's Mr. Keele really is in the newspaper, everyone at the rectory will know soon enough. Say, Mama, do you suppose Mr. Terry will have to teach Peter and me forever now, because I think it would be great larks to have a tutor who lived in the Fleet!"

Mrs. Barstow shook her head mournfully. "You're right, Gordy. Everyone will know soon enough about Mr. Weatherill. And though I think my cousin Lord Dere a good-hearted sort, I doubt Mr. Weatherill will remain your tutor. Will he, Della? Did you manage to see the baron when you and Frances called at Perryfield earlier?"

Before Adela could think of answering, Jane blurted, "Oh, no, Mama! Do you really think Lord Dere will dismiss Mr. Weatherill? Would he be so cruel? Mr. Weatherill cannot help where he grew up! He cannot help having had a father such as Rob Weatherill."

"Is that his name, dear?" asked her mother. "No, poor Mr. Gerard Weatherill cannot justly be blamed for what was outside his control, but the world will blame him nonetheless. And my cousin must think of the duty owed his family and his name."

"If that is so, Mama," said Jane slowly, "then it is not only Mr. Weatherill who will be censured. I should not have come to Iffley. How will it be any more acceptable for the baron to house the wife of a Fleet debtor than the son of one?" Her gaze swept the beloved faces gathered around her. "I will go back," she declared. "No one need know anything. Mr. Weatherill will not expose me. I could not bear it if you had to leave here, leave this charming situation, and it was my fault! Oh, Mama, how selfish—how blind I've been!"

Throwing herself at Mrs. Barstow, she was at once wrapped in her mother's arms, with all manner of assurances and vows murmured over her, while everyone else gave way to varying levels of tears, and they were all as miserable as they had been happy such a short time ago.

Everyone except Adela.

She dashed from her lashes the few drops which threatened to fall and rose to her feet.

The moment was upon her.

Frances saw it immediately and left off her own sobs to take her oldest sister's hand. She squeezed it in what she meant to be a comforting manner, but in truth her grip was painfully tight.

"Don't cry, Jane, Mama," Adela said loudly, glad to find her voice so steady. "All of you—don't cry. Jane will not have to go anywhere, and neither will we."

As always, Adela's words carried weight with her family, and they fell quiet, but doubt mixed with their hopeful attention. Seeing the questions rising to their lips, she went on.

"I did speak to Lord Dere this afternoon," she began carefully, "though I had no opportunity to mention Mr. Weatherill. In any case, Mr. Weatherill has come back to Perryfield himself. He arrived just as Frances and I were about to take our leave."

"Did the baron or Mrs. Dere know yet about—what we saw in the paper?" asked Sarah.

"They did not seem to. Yet." Adela balled her fists. "Mr. Weatherill will tell them himself, I daresay. You see, Lord Dere and I had no time to talk of Mr. Weatherill because—because there was something else to discuss first." How Adela could dance with impatience when people beat about the bush; yet here she was, doing precisely that! Go on, then, you coward! It's not going to say itself.

It might not say itself, but nearly as effective was a fifteen-year-old sister to say it for you.

"Della and Lord Dere are engaged!" cried Frances.

Glaring at the girl, Adela braced for a hurricane of noise to break out, but there was only disbelief and perplexity. And then Gordon laughed. "What stuff, Frances! Della and that old fellow." The others joined in, chuckling with relief, only to die out, one by one, in the face of Adela's sternness.

Sarah was the first to find her voice. "You can't mean it."

"It's true," said Adela, her chin lifting. "He—Lord Dere—announced it to Mrs. Dere and Mr. Weatherill and—and to Frances. It's true. It's done."

Having never seen nor met Lord Dere, Jane could only look at each of them in turn, from her mother's silently working mouth to Sarah's dismay to the younger children's frank puzzlement.

Gordon frowned, working it out. "Will you be Peter's great-aunt, then, Della? Step-great-aunt?"

"Hush," hissed Frances, releasing Adela's hand so she could dash over and shake a menacing finger in his face.

Pale and dazed, Mrs. Barstow got to her feet and took Frances' place, even clutching the same sore hand. "I did not know he thought of proposing to you," she said simply.

Adela reddened at that, knowing full well Lord Dere had not, in fact, thought of it. She gave an awkward shrug. "I suspect it will be a surprise to most."

"Tell me you love him, and I will give you my blessing," said Mrs. Barstow.

At this solemn adjuration Adela flinched. But screwing up her courage (or at least her best imitation of it), she replied, "I will love him, Mama. Eventually. I am determined. And for the present I esteem him greatly. Indeed, apart from his age, I see nothing anyone you could object to. I do not doubt many will call me very, very fortunate."

But rather than appearing reassured by this speech, Mrs. Barstow shook her head sadly. "Oh, my Adela."

"So you see," Adela continued stoutly, "neither we nor Jane need go anywhere. I will speak to—the baron—and he will understand that Jane must be welcomed. It will be a case of ‘love me, love my dog.'"

She had not expected any of her family to rejoice at her news, but the general glumness which met her announcement was worse than she imagined.

Sarah lowered Bash to the carpet, propping him carefully upright, like a plump little pyramid. Instantly his auntie Maria sprang from her seat to sit behind her nephew in case he overbalanced, while Sarah opened her workbasket to pull out one of Bash's gowns.

"And what of Mr. Weatherill?" Sarah asked, mild as milk. She drew the needle from where it had been tucked in the cotton and resumed her line of minute stitches. "Will he be another dog for the baron to love?"

Adela's lips parted, but no sound emerged.

Looking up from her sewing, Sarah's gaze sliced neatly through her. She said nothing, one eyebrow lifting just a hair.

Oh, heavens. Adela had the curious feeling that Sarah had opened a door to her heart and was inspecting its contents. Heavens, heavens, thought Adela. She knows.