Chapter 27

He that hath the bride, is the bridegroom; but the friend of the bridegroom, which standeth and heareth him, rejoiceth greatly. This my joy therefore is fulfilled.

— John 3:20, Beilby Porteus, Lecture III (1798)

The Right Reverend Beilby Porteus, Doctor of Divinity and Bishop of London, considered the letter from Baron Ranulph Dere, enclosing its sizeable donation to the Society for Missions to Africa and the East.

"Wilberforce would be glad of this money," he told his secretary. "And to be plain, so would I."

"Everything appears to be in order, my lord," said Quarrington. "The license from Bishop Randolph, the recommendation from the priest. There's something about a name change, but I suspect it would be a speedy business."

Lord Porteus thought of the number of missionaries Lord Dere's bank draft would underwrite, and the decision was soon made. "Let him come, then. All for the greater good, you know, Quarrington."

"Yes, my lord."

Mr. Roger Merritt was buried at St. Bride's, the brief service beside the grave attended by his widow, her sister, and Lord Dere. Poor Jane Merritt appeared paler than ever in her new mourning dress and short cape, but even in a blue kerseymere spencer (with new crape bands), the almost equally pallid Adela might have been mistaken for another intimate of the deceased.

She had waited for the baron to explain why he wanted to speak with Mr. Weatherill, but he did not, and when Adela could stand it no longer she introduced the subject herself the following morning at breakfast.

"Just a little business to transact," he answered pleasantly. "I made Mr. Weatherill an advance when he left Iffley, you know, with the agreement that he would begin to repay me in the new year, but as I found myself in London I thought it worthwhile to seek him out and sift his progress. Did you have an opportunity to chat with him before I came?"

"A brief one." Her smile was rueful. "We are all so in your debt, sir."

How different debts were, though, between gentlemen! By applying his shoulder to the wheel, Mr. Weatherill could and would in time pay off what he owed to the baron, but Adela had no means to cancel hers except to surrender herself, whether Lord Dere wanted her or not, much as the Iffley doctor Mr. Travers was sometimes obliged to accept livestock or crops in lieu of payment.

"It is natural to be out of spirits, after what you have experienced," the baron said when they stood in Fleet Street again following Roger Merritt's interment. He had to raise his voice to be heard over the din of vehicles, horses, and passersby. "And I would be remiss if I did not try to remedy that before we returned to Iffley."

Having been four days in London by this point, however, the return to Iffley was uppermost in the girls' minds, for they wanted nothing more than the comfort of their mother and siblings after their trials. But of course it was impossible to say they wanted no amusements but only to go home. Therefore they smiled (or, at least, Adela smiled—smiles were not yet expected from the bereaved Jane) and said, "What do you propose, sir?"

"I propose an M and an M," he declared. "A millinery and a mansion. What do you say?"

Even young ladies who wanted to go home would find a visit to a milliner difficult to object to, though Adela winced to think of adding to what they owed the baron, and they greeted this suggestion with proper eagerness.

The hackney coach stand was a few steps away at New Bridge Street in sight of the obelisk, and the threesome was soon rattling west toward St. James, the baron pointing out the offices of various newspapers, Somerset Palace, the figure of King Charles on horseback by Hubert le Sueur, and the columns of Carlton House.

"Is Carlton House the mansion we will see?" asked Jane when they alighted near St. James and Lord Dere paid the two-shilling fare.

"No, no," he answered. "A house owned by quite a different sort of person than the prince. That is, not so grand a house but nearly as grand a host. Now come, my dear girls. You must choose bonnets worthy of being seen by a mitre, if not a monarch."

Adela and Jane exchanged perplexed glances, but their companion beamed with mischief and joy and showed no sign of wanting to enlighten them. With Adela on one arm and Jane on the other, he led them up Pall Mall to the charming shop belonging to the Misses Allen.

As modestly and simply dressed as the sisters were, they warranted little attention from the modistes or their assistants until Jane was overheard whispering, "Yes, Lord Dere, that one is very pretty, but I would hate to cover it in crape." The word "lord" proved the key to the lock, and thereafter the trio received enough notice to please the vainest of princesses. Jane was coaxed into a black satin bonnet trimmed with blue-black ribbon, the flower garland at the crown removed and wrapped up in paper, to be replaced with a more sober rosette of ribbon. Adela would have chosen a lilac crape with a black straw brim attached, but the baron shook his head.

"No, no, I'm afraid that won't do at all, Adela," he admonished.

"You think I also should choose a completely black one?"

"I don't think you should wear black at all. Not today, at least. Not on such a beautiful day."

She glanced doubtfully at the lowering sky outside the bow window, but Lord Dere continued to beam at her. "Yes, indeed. A beautiful day. Wouldn't you say, Adela, that it is be a lovely day to be married?"

"Married?" she echoed wonderingly, while Jane stared and the shop assistants squealed with real or assumed joy.

"Married," he repeated with decision.

"Is your lordship engaged to this young lady?" the younger Miss Allen asked, clapping her hands and nodding to one of her assistants to fetch the more expensive designs.

"I am," he said briefly before turning back to Adela. "What do you say, my girl? Shall we go from here to the bishop's house in St. James Square?"

Adela sank to one of the padded stools, feeling the blood drain from her. "The bishop's house! The—bishop of London ? But—but, sir, I thought we would be married in Iffley when we returned. We—discussed it, and you said you had spoken with Mr. Terry and applied to the bishop of Oxford."

"So I did, but all this gloom surrounding poor Mr. Merritt has me wanting to restore some light to these eyes! Don't you agree, Mrs. Merritt? Wouldn't it hearten you to see your sister married today, or at the very latest tomorrow? I've heard Lord Porteus has very fine gardens at Fulham Palace, so it is a shame it is not high summer, that we might call on him there, but Saint James Square is quite elegant and worth seeing."

But noting Adela's pallor, Jane was quick to say, "Oh, sir, I will leave the choice to Della. You mustn't think of me a bit. Whatever makes Della happy will serve for me."

"I—I—"

"Now, my dear girl," he coaxed, taking her nerveless hand between his own and patting it. "I've taken you by surprise, I know, but I had better confess that I was so confident I could persuade you that I have already applied to the bishop and accompanied my application with a donation to one of his favorite causes, the sending of missionaries to Africa."

Words were impossible. Refusal was impossible. Escape was impossible. Just as the word "lord" operated magically upon the Misses Allen, the word "donation" was like a prison gate slamming shut upon Adela. She owed him so much, had already leaned so much upon his grace and favor. She could not possibly object. Who knew how much he had spent on this trip alone?

And what did it matter, finally, whether she be married in London or Iffley? By the bishop or by Mr. Terry? Before a few witnesses in a strange chapel or in the eyes of the whole congregation of St. Mary the Virgin?

No matter the time or circumstances, she would become the wife of Lord Dere, and not the wife of…the other one.

So let it be. Sooner was better than later, even.

Yes.

And if she married him now, she need not see the worldly-wise understanding in the eyes of all those present, the nods which indicated, She knew which side her bread was buttered on. What a catch for a girl of no fortune or connection!

All this passed through her mind in a flash, so that when she lifted her chin and replied, "Yes, sir, it's a lovely day for a wedding," none was any the wiser, or so Adela thought.

From the Misses Allen's millinery, a three-minute walk brought them to the bishop's yellow-brick, three-storey residence beside Norfolk House.

"Isn't this delightful?" the baron asked, gesturing at the spacious square, laid out with greenery and flower beds, bordered by fashionable residences. "Quite peaceful, despite its proximity to the hurly-burly of Pall Mall and Charing Cross! And so near the king, when his majesty requires spiritual aid! And then, when summer heat presses, my lord bishop floats up the river to Fulham. Charming, charming." Consulting his pocket-watch, he glanced about.

"Are we expected at a certain time, sir?" asked Adela timidly.

"I believe now will be just right. Shall we?"

The door opened at once, and the baron said in lofty tones Adela had not heard from him before, "Baron Dere, Miss Barstow, and Mrs. Merritt to see the bishop."

"Yes, my lord," intoned the footman, favoring them with such a supercilious look that Adela and Jane were glad of their new bonnets.

"Have the…witnesses…arrived yet?" asked Lord Dere, as the servant led them through the large entrance hall and up an imposing stone staircase.

"There are no other callers at present, my lord."

"Witnesses?" whispered Adela. "Will not Jane and—and a servant suffice?"

In answer he merely gave her arm a pat, and there was no time for more because the footman threw open the drawing-room door and bellowed their names.

Though her father had been a vicar, Twyford had been a modest parish, and Adela had never been in the presence of any clergyman higher than an archdeacon. Therefore she half expected someone so exalted as a bishop to parade about in mitre, ecclesiastical robe and stole, even in the privacy of his home. Apart from wearing a wig, however, the bishop of London dressed like any other (sober, fashionable) gentleman of a certain age, and his features, though stark and distinguished, were softened by a certain compassion. She would later learn he was an ally of William Wilberforce and, from the bishop's bench in the House of Lords, campaigned ceaselessly for the abolition of the slave trade.

At this precise moment in time, however, rising from her curtsey, she could only think, Don't stand on your hem, Adela Barstow! And don't stare. And make certain your mouth doesn't hang open. If only I could hide behind Lord Dere! Let us pray Lord Porteus does not speak to me.

"Ah, the bride," said the bishop.

"Yes, my lord," croaked Adela.

"Please—call me Bishop."

"Yes, Bishop."

"And you have the license from Bishop Randolph, Lord Dere?"

"Yes, Bishop."

"This is most irregular, you know, but you knew how to play your cards. I commend you for your generous donation to the Society for Missions to Africa and the East."

"I'm afraid matters are about to become even more irregular, Bishop," the baron replied, "but I would like to assure you I have long admired your writings and your concerns."

The bishop received this praise with a brief bow of his head. "Well, then. What is this irregularity you refer to? You said something about a name change?"

"Yes, Bishop. To speak plainly, a substitution."

"Impossible. Randolph's license is based on this Mr. Terry's recommendation of Lord Ranulph Dere of Perryfield and Miss Adela Barstow of Iffley. If either of these parties abstains, the license is null and void. All depends on this recommendation from Mr. Terry, you see."

"I do see, Bishop," replied the baron, beginning to slap at his pockets, "but I assure you Mr. Terry knows the substituted party as well and has sent a revised recommendation at my request."

The bishop clicked his tongue, his gaze shifting to take in Jane. " Most irregular. Surely you do not refer to a substitution for the bride, unless you have neglected to inform Miss Barstow."

"What do you mean, sir?" hissed Adela, inching nearer to him and trying to speak without moving her lips.

"No, not a substitution for the bride," Lord Dere said pleasantly, discovering the folded paper he sought and extending it to Lord Porteus. "Though you do remind me, Bishop, I have not, in fact, consulted her."

"Sir, please, what can you mean?" Adela asked again, unable to keep her voice from rising. "I beg you to consult me now!"

"Inclined as I am to be flexible in assisting you, Lord Dere," said the bishop dryly, without unfolding the sheet in his hand, "and even if the documents are in order, I can hardly marry parties in absentia ."

"Yes," sighed the baron, pulling his watch out and shaking his head. "Very reasonable of you, Bishop. Of course, I set this by St. Dunstan-in-the-West as we passed, but perhaps they used St. James Garlickhythe."

Before Adela could forget herself so far as to shake the baron in her impatience, the drawing room door flung open once more, and the haughty footman roared, "Mr. William Keele and Mr. Gerard Weatherill!"

Had the servant announced the entrance of their majesties the king and queen, Adela could not have been more astounded. She gawped. She gulped. She trembled.

"Gracious me," said Lord Porteus, when the newcomers straightened from their bows. "Can this be the Mr. William Keele who authored Antiquities of Egypt ?"

"The same, my lord," answered the dry, elderly man, running a hand over a wisp of unruly white hair in an attempt to flatten it. "I am honored you have heard of it."

"Heard of it! Why I have read a fair portion of it," the bishop declared, "as my time allows, and found much to marvel over. Not least marvelous, sir, if you will pardon me for mentioning it, is how you succeeded in producing such a monument to scholarship in your lamentable circumstances."

Mr. Keele shuffled his feet on the carpet. "Mr. Weatherill here was instrumental in gathering, organizing, and summarizing my materials, and we hope to produce a second volume."

"I rejoice to hear it." With an effort, the bishop tore his admiring eyes from Keele to consider Weatherill, his gaze narrowing as his mind worked through all that Keele's pronouncement implied.

"You, too…resided in the Fleet, Mr. Weatherill?" he questioned.

It took two tries for the young man to produce a sound, but he then managed, "Yes, my lord. Not in the Fleet proper, when I was old enough to earn money of my own, but hard by. Mr. Keele educated me and other children in the prison."

The bishop digested the implications of this as well, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.

Trying to be unobtrusive, Adela sank onto the nearest chair. She did not know if it was unseemly to sit if the bishop stood, but it was either sit down or fall down.

Her movement succeeded in recalling Lord Porteus to the matter at hand, however, for he glanced at Lord Dere. "Ah. Ahem. In any event, I presume one of these gentlemen is the proposed substitute, Lord Dere?"

"It had better be up to the lady," answered the baron mildly. "As she has kindly reminded me, I failed to consult her in the matter. Bishop, may I propose either we or they withdraw for a few minutes? You might, perhaps, ask Mr. Keele further questions about his work."

With eagerness belying his years, Lord Porteus snapped his fingers. "A capital suggestion. Come, whoever cares to. Join me in my library. My secretary Quarrington will wish to be included as well. Miss Barstow, Mr. Weatherill, we leave you two to sort this out."

Jane peeped at her sister, hoping Adela's eyes would beg her to remain, rather than go with such an august company, but Adela was staring at her hands and looking like she wished she might crawl under the furniture and hide. Jane would have to go. And then—great merciful heavens!—there was the bishop of London beside her, offering his arm to lead her from the room. Poor Jane touched feather-light fingers to the venerable man's sleeve and prayed with all her might he would not ask her anything about Roger.

When the others were gone, Adela lifted her head timidly. "I—don't understand what is happening."

"Whether it happens or not is entirely yours to decide, my love," he murmured, not stirring a step.

"I may—choose to marry you, instead of the baron?"

"If you will have me, Adela."

"But—but—I'm engaged to Lord Dere."

A slow smile curled his lips. "It seems he's trying to foist you upon me."

But this was too serious a matter for Adela to return his smile. "No," she said, her word wiping the mirth instantly from his face.

Weatherill inhaled sharply. "No?"

"No—I mean, you must explain it to me first," pleaded Adela. "If you knew the turmoil in my breast, you would not torture me, Gerard. You would explain all."

At her use of his Christian name, his smile returned, wider than before. "Very well," he agreed. "I will. But you must lay your stake upon the table before I hazard such odds. Suppose I were to make my lengthy explanation, and you then told me, ‘Upon consideration, I'm afraid I must refuse'? Then I would have got nothing for my pains and patience."

"What shall I stake, then?" she asked, rising.

But she saw the answer plainly in his eyes.