Chapter 24

From the Year are all its Honours fled,

And dull November rears his gloomy Head.

— Thomas Fitzgerald, Poems on several occasions (1781)

In later years, Adela would think of the weeks which saw October turn to November, and then the days of November ticking by, one by one, as the longest of her life.

"Certainly I will not press you for an early date, if you do not wish it, Adela," said the baron with courtly courtesy as he sat with her in the parlor of Iffley Cottage on the afternoon of the badger-hole incident, "but as to keeping the engagement quiet, I'm afraid it's too late for that. While I have not spoken to anyone beyond my niece about the matter, the servants at Perryfield—er—witnessed things, you will recall…"

"Of course. The servants." She twisted her handkerchief in her lap. "The news is likely all over the county by now, then."

"I confess I was congratulated by both servants and sundry people whom I passed in walking here."

Adela smothered a sigh and tried to appear shyly pleased, rather than despondent. When she had stolen home from her unexpected meeting in the meadow, there was no privacy available at Iffley Cottage, so she had taken it upon herself to spend hours in the kitchen pickling onions, that she might slice and slice and weep and weep, with no one the wiser. (Or so she imagined. If she had really given any thought to it, she would have noticed what a wide berth her family gave her and how Mrs. Barstow and Sarah conspired to intercept anyone who might interrupt.)

Now she sat, puffy-eyed, outwardly placid, and smelling faintly of vinegar, to receive her exalted beau.

"Has Mrs. Dere…recovered from her surprise?" she asked.

The baron's face gave him away, but he quickly smoothed his features. "Naturally she will need time to adjust, though she has only been mistress of Perryfield a few months. She would not be blamed for thinking it unlikely she would be supplanted. I have been a bachelor so long, you know."

In spite of her woes, curiosity stirred. "Did you never think of marrying when you were younger, sir?"

"Oh, naturally. But the girl I thought of thought of someone else in turn. And old story, I wager. And then the years passed, and somehow I never came so near again."

Regarding him, Adela wondered again that, in all those years, no girl ever set her cap for him, eligible as he still was, and with a flicker of her usual humor she said, "If only they had known the softness of your heart, sir, and how, when bidden at last to think of marriage, you did not show much resistance."

But he shook his head, smiling. "You must not underrate yourself, my dear Adela, simply because my thoughts did not tend that way until you…urged them to. I certainly was already disposed in your favor, being very pleased with all my new tenants at Iffley Cottage. And I have greatly enjoyed our conversations about music and entomology."

And there will be many more of those, I warrant. A lifetime of them.

"Moreover," he continued, "seeing how your family relies on you and looks to you, I can imagine how your presence would greatly add to a man's happiness and the happiness of his home."

Whatever Lord Dere's feelings toward her had been before she compromised him, in any event, he seemed resigned to his fate now, and Adela forced an answering smile.

Be fair, she chided herself. Before you kissed Mr. Weatherill, you told anyone who asked that you could and would learn to love the baron. Lord Dere is still the same kind, generous old man you admired, and it is certainly not his fault you did what you did, or that Mr. Weatherill did what he did or said what he said.

Though what was done could not be undone, it could be pushed from her mind, Adela vowed. Forgotten. Uphill work, yes, work which might require years to complete, but she was resolved.

Or would be resolved. Soon. When she was done bursting into secret tears.

Around the edge of the door Adela spied a dark hazel eye and eyebrow belonging to her sister Jane. The eye blinked; the eyebrow rose. Then both vanished.

That was right. When Irving had scuttled in to announce the baron's barouche approaching, every Barstow scrambled to escape the parlor, save Outlaw, who was curled up on a cushion asleep. Jane alone ran back, but only to hiss, " Please tell him about Roger being in the Fleet, Della, so we may know our doom as soon as possible!" And then she was gone again before Adela could even agree.

But such a devastating announcement could hardly be dropped on Lord Dere in the first moments of greeting him, even if Adela were not still flustered from kissing Mr. Weatherill. Indeed, the sight of her official betrothed—neat, silver-haired, quiet, slender, old —only made the morning memory more vivid by contrast, and, astonishingly, Adela soon forgot all about her sister's scandal.

Until now.

To give herself something else to look at, Adela picked up the slumbering Outlaw and transferred her to her lap, a disturbance the cat resented at once. With ears pointing angrily backward, Outlaw carelessly extended her claws a fraction of an inch and hopped down.

Fine, Adela resolved. I cannot even make a cat do what I want. My engagement served no purpose with Mr. Weatherill, but at least let it help Jane.

"Lord Dere," Adela began, "I thank you for such kind words. That is, I know you don't like me thanking you over and over, but I can't seem to help it. Especially since it always seems to be you doing us good, instead of the other way around." When she saw he was on the point of making his usual protests, Adela hurried on. "And I'm afraid there's one more thing I must tell you, sir. Something which doubtless not only Mrs. Dere but also you will find…shocking."

He waited attentively but said nothing.

"It—concerns my sister Mrs. Merritt, who I will introduce to you shortly, if you are willing to meet her."

"Why would I not be willing to meet any sister of yours, Adela?"

"Because, you see—Jane—she is not simply here on a visit."

"Is she here permanently, then?" he asked gently. "Do you hesitate because she will be one more person stuffed into Iffley Cottage?"

"No. Nothing like that. Sir, it pains me to tell you that Jane and—Mr. Merritt—her husband—will be living separately for the foreseeable future. Because—because—because—"

"Because the marriage was not a happy one?" he suggested.

"That's right. It wasn't happy." Without Outlaw to occupy her, Adela was thrown back on twisting her hands in her lap. "It wasn't happy because Mr. Merritt…took up some regrettable habits and—and—I'm afraid to tell you, he has been arrested for debt."

Whatever confession the baron had braced himself for, this surpassed it, and he held so still and stared so positively that Adela feared he would suffer a fit, and, not knowing what else to do, she plunged onward, the whole story pouring from her. The elopement. Mr. Merritt's aunt. His allowance cut off. Jane's inadequate pittance. The move to London. The accumulating debts. The suit. The arrest. The Fleet. The conditions therein. Mr. Weatherill discovering their fate, unbeknownst to the Barstows. Mr. Weatherill finding Jane when he went to see his father. Mr. Weatherill arranging for Jane's return.

When all was said, Adela fell silent, her breath coming quickly because all those mentions of Mr. Weatherill had wounded her like so many slashes of a knife. And each slash reminded her that the baron was not the only good, kind, and generous man of Adela's acquaintance.

No. There was another.

But he was gone forever.

Indeed, Mr. Weatherill's departure had been on the baron's tongue when he entered. "Harker set me down here," Lord Dere explained, "before driving poor Weatherill to Oxford, to catch the evening post-coach."

This matter-of-fact announcement took her breath away, and it was all Adela could do not to run to the window for one last, one very last glimpse of him. But she had just enough control of herself to refrain, instead rubbing her eyes briefly and saying something muddled about the onion pickle.

Fond as he was of onion pickle, Lord Dere's thoughts were still on the tutor. "Yes, what a worthy young man that Mr. Weatherill was, despite—or perhaps because of—his painful history. I regret that my niece saw fit to dismiss him, but Peter is her son, after all."

"Yes," murmured Adela.

"Besides which, he did not seem heartbroken by her decision. Indeed, he struck me as anxious to go."

"Oh?"

With a shake of her head to dismiss these thoughts, Adela returned to the present moment, relieved to see the baron had begun to absorb her shocking confession about the Merritts and was now breathing again. A twinge of pity even surprised her. Poor Lord Dere! How the women in his life did threaten his peace! First Mrs. Markham Dere, and now Adela herself.

Rousing himself, the baron drew a deep breath and took her hand in his.

After her engagement, it had been impossible for Adela not to wonder if or when Lord Dere might touch her or try to kiss her. And after kissing Mr. Weatherill, it had been impossible not to dread the event. But the manner in which he held her hand now was not at all horrifying. If anything, she found it contrarily comforting.

"Thank you, Adela, for telling me Mrs. Merritt's sad story," he said in his usual calm voice. "While I do not condemn her for it—she is very young—neither do I believe it needs to be more widely known. There will be food for talk enough, I daresay, if we put it about that the match was not successful. And I think we may trust that Mr. Weatherill will say nothing."

Adela nodded at that. No, Mr. Weatherill would not say anything. It was not Mr. Weatherill she feared, in this instance.

Clutching the baron's hand, she said, "But, sir,—considering how…strongly Mrs. Markham Dere felt about Mr. Weatherill's past, she will surely take great umbrage with Jane's."

To her dismay, her betrothed shrank, the glow of his gallantry fading visibly, and Adela could read clearly how he dreaded facing his commanding niece.

"Yes, yes," Lord Dere muttered. "Alice will have a great deal to say on the subject."

She knew he was picturing Mrs. Dere glaring coldly at him at every meal, stalking after him from room to room, wearing him down with her displeasure.

A tremble went through Adela. Would her great gamble be for naught?

She could not let it be so! If the baron would not fight for her, she must do so herself.

"Sir, shall I speak with Mrs. Dere?" she proposed. "I am…your intended wife, after all, and surely she will understand that—that—dreadful as it all is—you could hardly now turn your back on my family."

He nodded, but his color did not improve. Their hands clung together as drowning sailors might grasp at the same inadequate spar.

"Miss Barstow," he croaked, his confident use of her Christian name forgotten, "what would you say if we held your strategy in reserve? That is, suppose we were to keep Mrs. Dere in ignorance of your sister's troubles for as long as possible? She will have enough to say upon learning of the Merritts' separation, I well know. Therefore, let her accustom herself to the idea of our engagement and the enduring connection it will form with your entire family. Let her even become fond of Mrs. Merritt, if that is possible. (I know Miss Frances is a great favorite of hers.) And then, if further details later come to light, you and I will both be in a stronger position to—withstand her."

"Yes, yes," Adela was quick to agree. "There is great wisdom in your plan, sir. Let us do exactly as you propose."

The conspirators' handclasp became a handshake, and they shared rueful smiles before Adela carried his hand to her cheek in gratitude.

Then she rose to call in her family.

As if he had not already done more for them than could be repaid, Mr. Weatherill's final service to the Barstows was the coincidence of his exposure and departure with Jane's return. For Iffley and the Oxford set were far too eager to discuss the tutor's shocking secret, especially in light of his mentor Keele's newfound fame, to spare much attention to the more commonplace tale of a marriage encountering difficulties. Some might declare it was Mrs. Merritt's duty to return to her husband (as Mrs. Dere did sotto voce to Mrs. Terry), so long as Merritt did not beat or otherwise abuse her, but this minority was not passionate enough to press the opinion home.

No, Jane was soon permitted to take her place as just another of those attractive Barstow ladies who lived in the baron's cottage, largely at the baron's expense. What a burden so many poor, hapless relations would be, they all agreed, if not for Lord Dere's deep pockets! If that fortunate and wily Adela Barstow knew what was good for her, she would set a date and secure him for once and all. What was the girl waiting for?

Even Mrs. Markham Dere wondered at Adela's delay. While she never spoke the words aloud, she shared the opinion of Adela's great good fortune and cunning, and even marveled inwardly that the girl had been shrewd enough to feign interest in the tutor, to cover her deeper machinations. So why now did she hesitate on the brink? If Mrs. Markham Dere had been in her place, she would have fetched the baron to the altar at once, the sooner to produce the heir who would supplant little Peter Dere! What, indeed, was the girl waiting for?

The girl was waiting for her heart to heal.

As October dribbled into November, as the Barstow lives settled into new routines after the upheavals, as Adela herself sewed and baked and read aloud and attended church and made social calls and admired insects and played music for and occasionally held hands with Lord Dere, she waited. Waited for the memory of Mr. Weatherill to fade. Waited for his face to blur in her mind and his words to require effort to recall. Waited for the dreams, in which he seized her and planted those hard, burning kisses on her lips, to stop altogether.

She waited and waited.

"If this is love," Adela told herself as she walked the Upper Field or the Grove (she had not ventured into the meadows since the fateful morning—she could not bear to), "it is just as well that I do not learn to love the baron. I don't think I could stand it."

She was glad to have Jane back, however. Jane, who would walk quietly beside her wherever and however long Adela wished, each sister too absorbed in her own cares to break the silence.

It helped a little when the furore over Mr. Weatherill died down and she did not hear him mentioned at every turn. By All Souls Day Adela congratulated herself that she had not heard Mr. Weatherill's name for an entire week, but her rejoicing was premature, for that very day she suffered through a great, if final, outburst after the church service.

"Gentlemen," the baron addressed the usual gathering outside the west door of St. Mary the Virgin, "if anyone finally cares to peruse the much talked-of Antiquities of Egypt, you are welcome to call at Perryfield this week." Holding up his hands as questions flew, he explained, "It arrived in the post, courtesy of Mr. William Keele, and he thanked me for releasing Weatherill from his post here—that was how he put it—because then the young man was at liberty to assist him in the preparation of the second volume. Sadly I could not respond because Keele gave no address, but I have decided I will send my note to the publisher in London."

Adela's heart pounded at this news, and she pressed a fist to her breast, unaware of Sarah putting a hand to the small of her back. Mr. Weatherill working once again with Mr. Keele? Ah, she was glad to know he had found a place of some sort, and surely Mr. Keele could now pay him more than pennies. Perhaps Mr. Weatherill even lodged with the scholar, wherever he was.

She swallowed a growing lump in her throat. The sending of the books must have been at Mr. Weatherill's suggestion. He had done so, knowing the baron would talk about it, and Adela would hear. Why did he not send his address? There was no need to hide his whereabouts. I can neither write to him nor seek him, and it would have given me comfort to know where he was.

But no. Her sole comfort must be to know that he was all right. It was, she supposed, a way of saying, Do not fear for me. Life goes on. My life, and your life.

That was a day both comforting and wretched for her.

She looked at the volumes the next day at Perryfield—of course she did, with Gordon over her shoulder, but though the plates were beautifully engraved and the scope of the work vast, Adela did not find what she was looking for. There was no inscription, no handwritten marginalia. No private, coded messages.

It was later that same day when she quietly told Lord Dere she thought she was ready now to marry him. "But—must we have the banns read, sir? Though we know every last person at St. Mary the Virgin, somehow I shrink from Mr. Terry announcing it so publicly."

"What would you say, then, to a quiet ceremony?" he suggested. "Terry can recommend us to the bishop for a license, and then we may be married any morning you like, as your fancy takes you."

"Yes, sir. Let us do that. Thank you."

Another fortnight passed. The temperature dropped further, and Irving had to break the ice on the water bucket in the mornings. The Barstows knit woolen stockings, mended the lining of their spencers, and trimmed their black velvet bonnets anew.

As December drew nearer, Mrs. Terry proposed a new date for the children's ball. "Mr. Travers at last declares himself satisfied with Denver's ankle and has given permission for him to put full weight upon it once more," she announced after a dinner at Perryfield. "So what would you say to next Saturday, Lord Dere? I thought we might make it a party for the young people. They could dance and have lemonade and cakes."

The rector's wife thought it delicate to put the question to Lord Dere alone, rather than offend either the current mistress of Perryfield or its future mistress, but that only threw the dilemma upon the baron, and he glanced uneasily from niece to betrothed. Mrs. Dere began at once to swell with preparatory indignation, despite the youngest children cheering the idea, and Adela said quickly, "What would you advise, Mrs. Dere? We Barstows would be happy to assist in any way, whether to bake cakes or accompany the children or dance with them, but you must decide, because much of the onus of a ball falls upon the host."

Mollified by Adela's deference, Mrs. Dere soon condescended to approve the plan, and the days which followed brought a pleasant, distracting bustle. Mrs. Barstow and Sarah sewed Gordon a new coat and breeches; Reed and Jane baked spice and fruit cakes; and Adela and Frances spent several afternoons at Perryfield practicing on the pianoforte, the baron sometimes sitting quietly with a book and listening.

But in the end Mrs. Terry's fond project was not to be. For the very morning of the children's ball, an express came from London for Jane. While Sarah sought for coins to pay the messenger, Jane took one look at the direction of it and turned white as a ghost.

"You read it, Della, please," she whispered.

With shaking hands, Adela unfolded the single sheet.

25 November 1800

The Fleet, London

Dear Mrs. Merit:

Come at once. Your husband has sufferd a bad nock to the head and we feer for his life.

Your umble servant,

Ann Eddings