Chapter 22

Who hath believed our report? and to whom is the arm of the Lord revealed?

— Isaiah 53:1 , The Authorized Version (1611)

The rector's wife Mrs. Terry was the first to descend on Perryfield. Not from any malicious intent—indeed, she quite liked the tutor Mr. Weatherill—but rather to give warning.

Wood admitted her, his ordinarily expressionless face uncharacteristically expression-full, but Mrs. Terry paid no heed and even hurried ahead of him to the drawing room. And there she found Mrs. Markham Dere, not even standing to receive her. Indeed, the woman looked like she had suffered a blow to the head, for she sprawled—there was no other possible word for it—in an armchair, no work in her hands and her composure in pieces.

"Mrs. Dere!" cried the rector's wife, going to her side at once. "Are you quite all right? Shall Wood here fetch you a glass of wine?"

She didn't move. "Go away, Wood," came the dull response. And then, raising empty eyes to her visitor: "You've heard, I gather? I suspect it's all over the kingdom by now."

"For mercy's sake," clucked Mrs. Terry, contrarily inclined to make light of the situation, if Mrs. Dere were going to be so melodramatic. She plopped into the nearest chair and arranged her skirts. "Hiring any person, unless you know him beforehand or know and trust his family beforehand, involves risk, Mrs. Dere. I allow that you have discovered more than the usual amount of…unfortunate information, but nobody will blame you for it. We were all taken in."

Mrs. Dere's handsome face creased in puzzlement. "What on earth are you talking about, Mrs. Terry?"

Mrs. Terry's rosebud mouth popped open, awareness dawning on her that she had put her foot in it again, and Mr. Terry would have something to say about it. But the lot was cast now, at any rate, so she might as well forge ahead.

"Forgive me, Alice. I was referring to what is apparently in all the papers. That the Mr. Keele who authored Antiquities of Egypt— the same Mr. Keele who figured so largely in the life of your tutor Mr. Gerard Weatherill—"

"Yes, yes, what of him? Honestly, Mrs. Terry, I have much on my mind at present and don't want to hear another word about that worthless book everyone wants."

"You will want to hear this," returned Mrs. Terry equably. "That same Mr. Keele is discovered to have spent some fifteen years locked up in the Fleet, imprisoned for debts he was unable to repay until the publication of his ‘worthless' book."

Sitting bolt upright, it was Mrs. Dere's turn to stare, astonishment warring with skepticism. "This is…in the papers?"

"Both the Oxford Journal and the Morning Chronicle , I'm afraid. Now, I know your Mr. Weatherill has gone to London—"

"He has returned. This very afternoon."

"Oh! My goodness. And he made no mention of Keele to you or…how Keele's circumstances might have intersected with his own?"

To Mrs. Terry's surprise, Mrs. Dere colored and looked away toward the modest fire. "There was no time. Other matters pressed. But you can be sure I will get to the bottom of the question as soon as I see him." The idea of this confrontation seemed to hearten her, for she drew a deep breath and recovered some of her usual air. Rising, she began to pace the room. "If it is true—why, the audacity of the man! To come among respectable people, posing as a respectable character!"

"In his defense, Mrs. Dere, Mr. Weatherill made no secret of having been educated by Mr. Keele or of later teaching under him."

"And why should he?" the baron's niece retorted. She pressed a hand to her bosom. " We have no acquaintance with those who have been incarcerated! We, in our innocence, could have no objection to him being connected with a hundred Mr. Keeles! Lord have mercy! To think I was so taken in by his learned and intelligent reply to my advertisement! To think we have been sheltering a confederate of criminals, if not a criminal himself, under the very roof of Perryfield!"

"Now, now, Mrs. Dere," began the rector's wife, seeing her companion working herself into a state. "I would not call a debtor a criminal , per se."

"What else could one call someone who does not pay his creditors, Mrs. Terry? Is it not a form of thievery?"

"According to that definition, madam, I daresay there are many, many thieves at large in England, in every class of people."

"That may be," Mrs. Dere replied coldly, "but such persons will not be tolerated at Perryfield. Mr. Weatherill will not be tolerated at Perryfield. Such a person, to be entrusted with the heir to the Dere barony? I thank you for coming to inform me, Mrs. Terry. It was a true, neighborly act."

"Do you mean to dismiss him, then?"

"Of course I mean to dismiss him! And the sooner, the better."

"Mrs. Dere, do not be overhasty," the rector's wife advised. "While it is true Mr. Weatherill was not…open with you, and while it is also true there will be a great deal of talk and—I suppose—scandal, the fact still remains he was a good teacher and popular with your Peter and with Gordon Barstow. Mr. Terry is always telling me how often they mention him. To dismiss him at once might appear…vindictive."

"How can it be vindictive?" demanded Mrs. Dere. "Do you know the man owes us money, Mrs. Terry? For both I and Lord Dere have each of us given him advances on his salary (Lord Dere over my objections). But, once a debtor, always a debtor, I imagine."

Mrs. Terry in fairness could not let this pass. "Now, Mrs. Dere, if Mr. Weatherill has spent time in the Fleet—and it seems we must assume this of him—it cannot have been for his own debts, for he would have been little older than Peter when he went in!"

But the baron's niece merely shrugged. "That may be, but whether it was Mr. Weatherill's own debts which landed him in the Fleet with this Keele person, or whether the debts belonged to his father, the two of them must be as alike as two peas. No. I wash my hands of Mr. Weatherill. But to show you I am not vindictive, we will not call in the debt. Right away, at least."

"There's a mercy," Mrs. Terry sighed. "I always did think it silly, to put someone in prison for debt and expect them somehow to clear themselves, when they were no longer at liberty to work. Well. I am sorry how this has all fallen out. No one will think less of you for having been taken in, Mrs. Dere, for I confess we all found him agreeable enough. I hope he might go on and live honestly and prosper."

The rector's wife had reached the drawing room door before she turned back, her head cocked in curiosity. "By the way, Mrs. Dere, when I arrived, did you think I came to tell you other news? You seemed unlike yourself."

As robust as it had been a moment earlier, Mrs. Dere's self-assurance faltered. "Oh—er—nothing. That is, the baron has…made some decisions affecting the family, which I will leave him to explain. They took me by surprise, is all. Good afternoon, Mrs. Terry. And, if you please, I hope Peter and Gordon may continue a little longer at the rectory with your good husband?"

With a bow of her head, Mrs. Terry withdrew.

Later that evening, a messenger skipped over from Perryfield with a note informing them that Gordon's lessons would continue at the rectory for the time being.

"But why," the boy protested, "if Mr. Weatherill has returned?"

"He injured his eye in some fashion and needs time to recover," explained Adela. It was cowardly, but she did not think she could bear to elucidate. If Mr. Weatherill chose to abandon his post, let him explain to his pupils.

After such a day, the family retired earlier than usual, but of course Adela could not sleep. She lay as still and quietly as she could in the bed she shared with her sister-in-law, however, absolutely determined that she would not cry and wake Sarah or Bash.

But when the house was at last utterly still, Adela felt a single, obstinate tear leak from her eye, and her hand stole up to blot it. At once Sarah rolled toward her and whispered, "I hoped you were awake, Della. If you were asleep I think I would have woken you."

"I'm awake."

"Then Della, I will tell you something," said Sarah softly, propping herself on her elbow. "I did not want to say it in front of everyone else, but I must now, or it will be on my conscience."

"Dear me," murmured Adela, striving for lightness. "Were you too a prisoner in the Fleet, before you met Sebastian?"

"I am quite serious, Della, and you must be serious too."

"All right," answered her sister-in-law meekly, but she could not help shrinking in trepidation. "Say away."

She heard Sarah take a deep breath.

"It's this, Della: I don't think you should marry Lord Dere until you are certain you can love him. I know he's a good man and so forth, but he must be older than Mrs. Barstow and at least thirty years older than you! Think, Della. Think what your life will be, if you do not love him."

With a groan, Della folded her pillow over her head, wishing she could bellow, "Get thee behind me, Satan!"

"I know why you're doing it," Sarah went on, still audible through the pillow. "To protect us. But Della, we would do better to tell Lord Dere the whole truth about Jane and trust to his native kindness."

"You forget Mrs. Markham Dere," growled Adela. She could have argued with Sarah's interpretation of affairs, but she knew it would be wasted breath. "We could never prevail over Mrs. Dere because he could never."

Sarah fell back against her own pillow with a sigh, and the room was silent, apart from the occasional rattle of the window or creak of the cottage. When several minutes passed, Adela thought she had won the battle, though she was aware of a contrary twinge of disappointment that both her mother and Sarah yielded so easily. Would there be no one, then, to save her from her self-appointed fate?

But her sister-in-law had only been thinking. Because she rolled onto her side once more and thrust a hand from under the covers. "Give me your hand, Della."

"Why? The room is cold."

"Give it to me. I want to ask you something, and I need to feel your pulse when I do."

"What sort of interrogation will this be?" Adela asked warily. "You're making me apprehensive, and my pulse has already jumped as a result." She obeyed, however, and felt Sarah press a finger to her wrist.

"Darling Adela, what are you so afraid I will ask, that your pulse speeds like this?"

"Whatever it is, get it over with," Adela replied. "This has been a trying day."

"Very well," agreed Sarah. "I will come to the point. My question is only this: ought you to marry the baron, when it is Mr. Weatherill you care for?"

She had no chance to measure the great leap in Adela's pulse which followed, unfortunately, for the simple reason that Adela snatched her hand back as if from a glowing stove.

"And there is my answer," murmured Sarah dryly.

"How did you know?" Adela hissed. "How could you possibly have guessed?"

"I've got eyes, haven't I?" Sarah answered with a rueful chuckle. "Or call it a suspicious nature. It was not so long ago that your brother won my heart, so I still recognize the symptoms."

"But I've told no one! You must tell no one! Not a soul, Sarah Barstow, do you hear me?"

"Who would I tell?" Sarah fluttered her fingers through the bar of moonlight falling across their beds. "But listen to me, Della. It is one thing to marry Lord Dere when your heart is your own, and another altogether to do it when you no longer have a heart to give."

"Certainly I have a heart to give," insisted Adela stubbornly. "Nobody else wants it. Nobody else claims it."

"That doesn't mean it's still in your possession," her sister-in-law sighed. "Your brother is lost to me now, but I still love him. My heart's gone missing, though Sebastian will never claim it again."

Sarah's voice cracked, and Adela felt her own throat tighten. Ah, Sebastian .

Quietly, Sarah cleared her throat, and when she spoke again her voice was steadier. "Have you said anything to Mr. Weatherill?"

"Are you mad? Of course I haven't!"

"Nor he to you?"

Adela gasped so sharply she choked and had to muffle her coughs in her pillow. "What would he say to me?" she croaked. "Do you think he might—like me a little too?"

"I have not seen him so many times as you," hedged Sarah, not wanting to raise Adela's hopes. "But I do not think him indifferent."

"And yet…" Woefully Adela recalled her last conversation with Mr. Weatherill. He had not sounded a bit like a man in love with her. Not that she knew what a man in love with her would sound like. If anything, the curate Mr. Liddell, whom she had once thought herself attached to, had sounded far friendlier than Mr. Weatherill. Not just sounded friendlier—Mr. Liddell had been friendlier. Adela could not remember arguing with him even once; whereas she and Mr. Weatherill argued with some frequency.

But Mr. Liddell gave you no chance to argue. He simply defected.

So there was that.

"What would you do in my place, Sarah?" asked Adela. "Let my family leave Iffley, to go heaven knows where? Were I to give up Lord Dere, doing so would not therefore gain me Mr. Weatherill."

"Perhaps not," returned Sarah, "but marrying Lord Dere will most definitely place Mr. Weatherill forever out of reach."

"It doesn't matter, Sarah," Adela said fiercely, her fists knotting. "He told me this afternoon he was going in any case."

"Going away!" echoed Sarah, more loudly. In his cradle Bash stirred and smacked his lips, and his mother lowered her voice. "Because he is afraid of Mrs. Dere?"

"I thought so—and I told him I would speak to the baron for him—but he wouldn't hear of it. He says that, now his secrets are known, he wants to make a new start somewhere else. I didn't say anything earlier because I didn't have the heart to tell Gordy straight off."

"But it cannot be so!" Sarah protested. "Where could he possibly go? Without a friend in the world, and with his father still in prison?"

"He says he will advertise for a new post."

"Mr. Weatherill may speak of wanting to make a new beginning, but with such a thunder-cloud forever hovering over him, who will make allowance for it, if not us?"

Adela huffed out a breath. "It is no use saying such things to me, Sarah, for I already agree with you whole-heartedly. But he was quite obstinate about it. And it's no use thinking what you had with Sebastian was something everyone might have, therefore. So you must leave me be, do you understand? Don't tell me to—to throw myself at Mr. Weatherill, or anything of that nature, because I tell you I can't do it."

Or, at least, she couldn't do it for a second time. Was it not humiliating enough that both her knees and her self-esteem were still bruised by having done so with the baron?

She could not see her sister-in-law's face in the darkness, but she imagined the wistful, resigned expression it must bear, for Sarah said nothing. She only stretched her hand out again, patting the coverlet until she found Adela's arm and pressed it lovingly. Then, with a whisper of a sigh, Sarah rolled to face Bash's cradle, laying her same palm against the wicker to feel the warmth imparted by his little flannel-swaddled body.

She would say she is lucky , Adela thought, always to have this piece of Sebastian to love and keep by her. And maybe she is.

It was more than Adela would have.