Chapter 23

Loud shrieks the soaring Hern.

— James Thomson, The Seasons (1744)

Adela woke early the following morning (if she had slept at all), drawn and tired.

What did one do, when one became engaged to a baron? On the one hand, she was dying to know what was happening at Perryfield, and, on the other, she never wanted to go near Perryfield again. Surely she must let Lord Dere choose how and when and where they would next see each other. After what had passed between them, Adela thought appearing unbidden again at the Great House would finish her.

A peek through the shutters showed her only the faintest brightening on the eastern horizon. Still early. Only Irving and Reed were up, the manservant fetching wood and Reed banging around in the kitchen, and Adela quickly decided she would don her cloak and heavy boots and go for a walk in Iffley Meadow before breakfast, following the winding Thames.

The morning was cold but not frosty and bid fair to be sunny by afternoon. Adela slipped through the turn-wicket, feeling her spirits lift as she tramped through the damp grasses. The hay-mowers had been through in August, of course, but closer to the river the untouched sward brushed her knees. While the walk could change nothing in her circumstances, the fresh, sweet air, combined with the exercise, restored her color and even a touch of her youthful optimism.

What if she were to tell the baron she did not wish to be married for at least a year? Anything might happen in a year, and by then even Jane's scandal would have been discussed to death. Jane might be pointed at and whispered about as a caution to other young ladies, but surely even Mrs. Markham Dere would be resigned to her ongoing residence at Iffley Cottage.

Yes, she would ask him for time. Would it be better to ask for the whole year at once, or to put Lord Dere off by snatches?

Before Adela could decide, a shout rent the morning peace, followed by muffled cursing. Oh, dear—how near that sounded! The sun was just beginning to clear the horizon, shooting forth rays of pink and peach, but among the trees by the river the shadows were still thick. Adela's heart thumped, and she glanced about in vain for a stick or other possible weapon she might wield. Unless she were to clamber over the wall at some farther point and take the long way back to the cottage, she must pass the person on her return. Well, for an unaccompanied young lady there was no choice in the matter, and she had crept some yards away from the voice before her conscience stopped her. Suppose the person had injured himself?

With a sigh she turned back, emerging from the tree-lined riverbank and treading the damp grass again toward the turn-wicket.

In half a minute she saw him.

"Mr. Weatherill?" she breathed.

Later she would think it must be an effect of love, that she would be able to recognize him from behind, in dim light, at a distance of over a hundred yards. For he was hunched awkwardly, tugging at something.

Though she had not spoken loudly, sound carried in the morning hush, and his head turned at once, revealing the eye patch, if she needed further confirmation. "Miss Barstow?"

"What are you doing here, sir?" she asked, rushing forward as quickly as uneven ground, wet grass, and patches of mud would allow. "Are you hurt?"

"I was walking, waiting until a decent hour to post my letters with Mrs. Lamb, and I seem to have stepped into a badger's hole. My boot is caught in something—let us pray it is not the badger's teeth—so that I can't free myself."

"Let me help you," Adela said, bending immediately to tug at his boot.

"Miss Barstow," he protested, "you will get muddy."

"A little mud is nothing," she panted, gritting her teeth and tugging harder. "I am just relieved you are not a highwayman or a vagrant. Are you pulling, Mr. Weatherill?"

"Of course I'm pulling, can't you tell?"

She could, in fact, tell. Adela Barstow had never clutched a young man's leg (or any man's leg, as far as she knew), and even through the leather of his boot she could feel the living, tensing hardness of it, a realization which brought the crimson to her cheeks.

"Well, that isn't working—perhaps if you were to relax your—your— limb instead … ?"

Relaxing proved no more effective, however, and Adela soon released him and straightened to catch her breath. "Heavens. I don't know what you were doing, to get so stuck. I know I've stepped in a badger hole before and just stepped right out again."

He gave a rueful grin. "I would guess I'm at least three or four stone heavier than you, Miss Barstow, which makes a difference when stamping around in meadows."

"So it seems." Tapping her chin, she assumed her best older-sister voice. "If pulling on your foot failed, I suppose next we must pull on you ."

"Who is ‘we'?"

But Adela was already behind him. Shutting her eyes briefly for courage, she flung her arms about his waist and hauled .

Shlo-o-o-o-o-pwop!

At one go, the badger hole relinquished Mr. Weatherill (who roared with the wrench to his ankle), sending him tumbling backward against Adela, who tumbled in turn to the wet grass, Mr. Weatherill sprawled atop her so that they looked like a stack of overturned crabs.

"Adela!" he cried, scrambling up (and accidentally elbowing her in the ribs so that she yelped). "Blast! Have I injured you?"

Slowly, she rose to her feet and took stock. Her bonnet hung by its ribbons; her hair was half fallen; her leather gloves were streaked with dirt; her cloak was wet, with so many blades of marsh grass stuck to it that it might have been an embroidery pattern. But it was Mr. Weatherill's appearance which made Adela catch her breath, only to release it the next second in a whoop of laughter.

For he stood there, equally mud-spattered, one boot on and one boot off. The bootless foot was encased only in a much-darned stocking, and Mr. Weatherill seemed reluctant to put it down, leaving him posed like a species of heron.

"Dear me," laughed Adela. "At least here is proof the badger did not bite off your toes." Extracting the boot from the burrow was a simpler procedure when it was empty, and when she had done so, she held it out to him.

"Thank you." He debated whether to pull it back on by balancing on one foot, or to flounce down on his backside in the grass, but the first option would likely involve undignified hopping about and the second would soil his greatcoat.

"You had better hold on to me," said Adela, guessing his thoughts.

After the slightest hesitation, he did so, his hand descending on her shoulder. He meant just to rest it there—applying only the minimum pressure to stay upright—but he had not counted on the unevenness of the marshy ground, nor the pain which shot through his ankle when he pointed his foot to insert it in the boot.

"Fire and brimstone!" cursed Weatherill, clenching Adela's shoulder until she squeaked and twisted away. With the loss of his buttress, over he toppled again, landing hard on his side, one bruised rib meeting squarely with a large clod of dirt.

"Mercy!" cried Adela, as further oaths rained down on her. "What a morning! I am so terribly sorry, Mr. Weatherill, but your fingers dug in so hard I thought they would break the skin."

"No," he said faintly. "Please—forgive my language. It's my fault. I must have sprained my ankle in the confounded badger hole. That hurt like the dickens. And I have a few lingering aches in my side from—er—when I hurt my eye."

Remembering her earlier resentment of his vague account, she regarded him sternly. "That's right. You said you ‘ran into something.' Something which blackened your eye and tore the knee out of your—inexpressibles—and, apparently, made you sore about the ribcage. What an extraordinary ‘something' that must have been."

Since he was already on the ground, he set his jaw and pulled his boot back on, inch by painful inch, and when she saw him blanch and wince, Adela relented. "I'm sorry again, Mr. Weatherill. It's none of my business, I suppose."

But he surprised her. "I will tell you now. Why not? You know the worst. I did not, in fact, run into anything, apart from a couple of charming miscreants in my visit to the Fleet," he sighed, rising first to his knees and then to his good leg, with only the toe of his injured foot touching the ground.

"Is it truly so rough there?" marveled Adela.

A humorless smile. "Not in the way you mean. It's entirely possible to go for years in the Fleet without a violent hand being laid on one, though there are assaults of other kinds." He made a bow. "Witness my ungentlemanlike expletives. I imagine in a swearing match I could hold my own against any man in England, simply from having heard abundant and various imprecations all my days." Slapping at his coat to dislodge the looser dirt, he shook his head. "You see, Miss Barstow, perhaps I really am not the sort of person one wants around young boys with unformed character."

"Nonsense!" she blurted, her earlier displeasure with him entirely forgotten in the face of this self-directed attack. "I have never heard you use improper language before, and when pain is involved, every man deserves leniency."

"Thank you," he said quietly. "You are gracious."

This made her color, for she knew very well all the ungracious thoughts she had had for him the day before. Apologetic words rose to her lips, but he anticipated her.

"Miss Barstow, I hope your grace will extend yet further, because I would like to beg your pardon for how I spoke yesterday. When you said you would defend me to the baron, I mean. Instead of recognizing your offer as an act of friendship, I was too preoccupied with my own…discomfiture to recognize it as such. Nor was it my place to…denigrate your engagement to Lord Dere."

Adela had lifted a hand to forestall him, but she withdrew it again at this. "Please, Mr. Weatherill. I confess I was resentful of your remarks, but it is I who should beg pardon. I should not have assumed you would welcome any interference with Mrs. Dere. After all, your life is your story to tell, not mine."

This drew a rueful laugh. "But that's just it, isn't it? My life story has always been something I wanted no one to tell, not even myself. But now it is told, whether I like it or not. And Mrs. Dere has asked me—quite politely and reasonably, in all consideration—to move on from Perryfield."

"Oh!" she gasped. "So soon? But who told her? She doesn't read the papers. I thought it would not be until Sunday at church that she learned."

"Mrs. Terry brought the news, according to Mrs. Dere, but you mustn't think ill of her for it. Apparently she preached forbearance, to Mrs. Dere's indignation. It makes no difference in the end. I have here in my pocket my advertisement to send to several newspapers, as well as—word to my father."

"Do you mean to go back to London, then?" asked Adela, hoping he didn't hear the forlorn note in her voice. How much longer would he remain in Iffley? A fortnight? A week?

"It is the only other place I have acquaintances," he answered. "But, Miss Barstow, despite all the mishaps of the morning, I am glad I met you here. That is, I am glad for this chance to say…good-bye."

Adela clutched at her cloak, suddenly breathless, as if a great serpent had streaked unseen through the vegetation to coil about her. "Good-bye?" she squeaked. "Surely Mrs. Dere does not turn you out immediately?"

The sun had risen above the horizon now, however, and he turned to regard her thoughtfully. Seeing his uncovered eye narrow against the light, Adela thought he must be remembering his unpleasant confrontation with Mrs. Markham Dere, but in truth he was only thinking of how the rosy light played across Adela's features and wondering if this was the last time he would ever see her. Though he had not come into Iffley Meadow expecting to encounter her that morning, he knew she occasionally walked there, and he had hoped it. One thing was certain: he would never have left without one final glimpse, one final attempt to restore friendship between them, so they might always remember each other without hostility.

"In so many words, she does not," he admitted. "But I can hardly continue lurking on the second floor and eating the baron's bread when I have no right to it."

"Oh, Mr. Weatherill! Are you absolutely certain you don't want me to speak to him? Even now I know I can prevail, if only you wish it."

"But I do not wish it," he said lightly, still watching the glow of her brown eyes as she entreated him. What—stay on and torture himself? Stay on, knowing he was there on sufferance, because the woman he loved begged for it? Begged for it and was granted it, because she asked it of her fond betrothed.

Never .

She gave one dip of chin in acceptance, her lashes lowered and her nails digging into her palms through her gloves to keep herself from shedding tears. It was a long moment before she could trust herself to speak again.

"Very well. Then, yes, I too am glad we are reconciled before you—go. Only—how will you live, until you have found a new position? Mr. Weatherill—as a last act of friendship, for all your kindness to—us—to all the Barstows, won't you let us give you a little…gift to smooth your way?"

Gerard would have laughed at this, if he weren't closer to crying. "A gift from the Barstows, out of their vast wealth?" he teased. "Thank you, but I tell you there is no need. The ever-generous Lord Dere pressed a parting sum into my hands, as if I did not already owe him money (which I have sworn to repay). Pressed it on me, even as he peeped in fright over his shoulder, lest Mrs. Dere catch him distributing largesse."

"Did he really?" cried Adela, raising delighted eyes to him, and tears sparkled on her lashes in spite of herself. "How good and kind and generous he is!"

This spontaneous praise of his rival infuriated him, as did his awareness of his own ingratitude toward the baron, and he wished he held the sum in his hands that very instant so he could hurl it across the Thames. Confound the man, and confound his goodness, kindness and generosity!

But with no sack of treasure ready to hand, Weatherill did the next best thing in his rage: he seized Adela by both shoulders and crushed her to him, his mouth coming down hard on hers so that their teeth knocked together. She would have shrieked with surprise, if it had been possible, but his lips pressed so hungrily to hers that it was not possible, especially since Adela found herself kissing him back with all her might.

Gerard didn't even feel his bruised ribs, though she strained so tightly against him, but when her arms flew up to circle his neck, he tried to steady them by putting down his bad foot. Pain shot up his leg, eliciting a groan from him as it crumpled beneath their combined weight.

"Mr. Weatherill!" she panted atop his chest, as she tried to slide off. "I've hurt you again. I forgot—your ankle—"

"Never mind it," he growled, pulling her back against him, careless of the damp grass cold against his back. "Kiss me, Adela."

She obeyed.

In all her life she had never so abandoned restraint. Her weight on him, the cold, the dank air, the public setting—all went for nothing as they lay in the meadow together, his person pressed to hers, his mouth pressed to hers, his breath mingling with hers. Adela felt his fingers winding in her hair, heard him murmuring unintelligible endearments—or was that her?

It was madness.

Sweet madness.

The sound of a coach rattling down Wallingford Way jolted them to awareness. Though they could not see it, the rhythm of the horses' hooves and the blast of the coachman's horn carried easily to their ears.

"It's the mail," Weatherill said, rolling her gently to his side and struggling to rise.

"Your eye patch," said Adela, scrambling up herself to retrieve it. "Ah, poor darling, look at it." She traced one gentle finger over the discoloration, and he caught her hand to kiss her palm.

"Marry me, Adela," he urged.

Her mouth fell open in astonishment, and he could not resist bending to kiss her again, but this time she drew back. "What are we doing? Don't—we can't."

"I know we can't marry now. Not yet. I have no position, no money, no home to offer you, my dearest—"

But she was already shaking her head vehemently, sanity returning like a dousing of icy water. "No. No . What was I thinking? What was I doing? I must go now. We will be seen together." Even as she spoke she was pinning her hair up and shaking out her cloak and looking every direction in trepidation.

"Adela, listen to me—" he grasped her wrist to still it. "I know it will be years before we can marry, but I will work so hard for you. I will—"

"Stop, Mr. Weatherill, I beg you!" she pleaded, wrenching from his hold. "It cannot be. You know it cannot. I am already engaged, and I must stay engaged. I must think of my family. I should not have—kissed you like that. It was dishonest. It was wrong."

"It was the truest thing you've done since you came to Iffley."

"Don't, Gerard. Don't . Please. You know everything must stay as it is. You and I cannot marry—we cannot afford to. Nor can my family afford to be driven away, as you have been. I was wrong to kiss you."

"You kissed me because you love me, Adela, as I love you."

But she was tying her bonnet strings and backing away. "It can't be. It can't be. I'm so sorry. Forgive my—my—unconstraint. My foolishness. Mr. Weatherill, I wish you all joy. I will—I will never forget you."

And then, with one last, longing look at him, the back of her hand to her lips to stop further speech, she turned and fled for the turn-wicket.