Chapter 28

They literally lowered mountains, they raised valleys, they cut down woods, they removed all obstacles, they cleared away all roughnesses and inequalities, and made everything smooth and plain and commodious.

—Beilby Porteus, Lecture III (1798)

In a stride he was across the room, and she was in his arms, breathless kisses stealing all thought away.

"Adela, my Adela," he murmured against her mouth and neck, one hand going to the ribbons at her chin. The next moment her new bonnet, so carefully chosen with the aid of the baron and the Misses Allen, tumbled to the floor, and his fingers were twined in her lustrous hair. Her own hands explored the wondrous new territory of broad shoulders and the arms which enclosed her like iron bands, and she found herself breathing his name in return.

In short, they forgot themselves, and it was likely a blessing in disguise that no one had told the footman to give them privacy. As it was, he banged in again with the tea tray, and only his fixed attention on the full urn, delicately placed cups, saucers, milk jug, sugar bowl, teaspoons, tongs, and seed biscuits prevented him seeing the lovers' embrace, the ardor of which would certainly have been the most shocking sight in his ten years' service of the bishop. Weatherill and Adela sprang apart before they could be discovered, however, and with only a bow in their rumpled direction, the footman once again withdrew.

"That was a near thing," said Weatherill, suppressing a laugh.

"Too near," Adela answered, scarlet. But her own lips twitched. Reading that as an invitation, Weatherill reached for her again, only to have her raise a commanding finger and escape to one of the Venetian windows overlooking the square. "Go on then, sir," she said as she began to tidy her hair. "I have done as you asked, and now you must do as I asked, and quickly, before they return."

With a mock sigh, he spread his hands, palm upward. "Cruel mistress. Where would you have me begin?"

"At the beginning, of course, sir."

"What? ‘Sir'? Sir me no sirs, Adela."

" Gerard, then," she relented. "But pass me my bonnet, please."

"A very fetching bonnet, I must say."

"Thank you. It was a gift from my former betrothed."

"Wretch!"

But she blew him a kiss, and he smiled. "Let me see…begin at the beginning? Well, that would be the day I arrived at the Angel Inn in Oxford, and an adorable creature—an angel herself—entered the coffee room…"

"Hush!" she scolded. "I am very interested in that part of the story, but we haven't time before the bishop reappears and I must give my answer. Skip to the point where you and Lord Dere came to agree on this mad scheme, if you please. Did you know of it when I last saw you at the Old Bell?"

"I did not. I had only discovered that very morning that Lord Dere was in London, having received a note from my father to that effect—"

"We met him when we arrived at the Fleet to see Roger Merritt," Adela interrupted. "Met Mr. Robert Weatherill, I mean, and I knew him at once for your father. He shares your proportions and—your handsomeness."

He grinned at her. "Oh, dear. Should I be concerned that you thought him handsome? I know how your taste runs to much older men."

"You!" She cast about for something to toss at him, but as everything belonged to the bishop and looked fearfully expensive, she settled for darting over and flicking a finger at his waistcoat. Which earned her a kiss in retaliation.

But this was getting them nowhere. Adela retreated again, taking a seat at some distance and determined to stay away until she knew everything.

With a sigh, Weatherill chose his own chair at a decorous remove. "Let me see…my father sent his note which was instantly followed by a letter from Lord Dere himself, forwarded by Keele's publisher. In it, the baron asked me to attend him at the Old Bell in regard to the advance he had made me. My heart should have sunk—I had only a few loose shillings I could safely spare him—but I was so hungry for news of you that I hastened over. Instead of the baron, however, the door opened, and you appeared. Oh, Adela, when I saw you there, after thinking I never would again…"

"I know it," she whispered. "I felt the same."

He cleared his throat. "Well. What happened next you will remember, I daresay."

"If I did not, today would have jogged my memory," she murmured with a glint of mischief.

Chuckling, his eyes fell briefly to her swollen lips. But he persevered. "To resume: following a sufficiently tumultuous encounter with you, Lord Dere at last made his appearance, and you slipped away. I thought when you left the room you were going out of my life forever, and I did not think I could bear that a second time. Adela, I nearly threw my shillings down to pursue you, but the baron must have guessed it because he leaned against the closed door. He was merciful, however. That is, he told me straight away that he had not summoned me to talk of money at all, but rather to put me to the test. To put us to the test."

"Test? What test?"

"He said he had for some time suspected I had feelings for you and—you for me. And he thought, if he threw us together, he would…see what happened."

Adela put her hands to her suddenly burning cheeks. "I do not doubt, when he saw my embarrassment and distress and how I fled the room, he needed no further evidence of my feelings."

"Say it, then, my darling," he urged, drawing his chair nearer. "I want to hear it. I told you I loved you in Iffley Meadow; now do you tell me."

What could poor Adela do when so bid, entreated by his glowing eyes, his voice sending shivers through her? She obeyed, but so quietly he must take his satisfaction more in reading her lips than in hearing her.

But it was enough. Contenting himself with drawing a fingertip along the length of her arm, he took up his account again. "You cannot take all the credit for persuading him. When you left the little parlor, I could scarcely string words together. I thrust the shillings at him and said I was sorry, but I must go, and I would pay him more as I was able, but he said I might be quit of the debt altogether, if I were willing to do him one service."

"You mean, if you were to marry me, in his stead?" she breathed.

"Precisely." Weatherill shook his head, smiling, and reached to take her hands in his. "He said, fond as he was of you, he suspected I was fonder. And fond as you were of him, he suspected you were fonder still of me. Therefore, having devoted much thought to it, he decided it would be better for all, including himself, if he remained a bachelor, and I took his place. Would I consider it? ‘Miss Barstow has no portion to speak of,' he told me, ‘but if you will agree to this more comfortable arrangement, Weatherill, I believe it would be possible to provide a little wedding gift of sorts.'"

Her eyes filling, Adela cried, "Ah, he is too kind! When I think of all my family has cost him and how gracious he has been to us. This trip alone, for Jane's sake—"

"Softly…" Weatherill chuckled, "lest you decide you do, in fact, prefer him." He tugged on her hands and patted his lap, but she withstood his invitation, hissing, "The bishop, my dear! They will return at any moment, before the tea grows cold."

And indeed, the door to the drawing room opened once more, gently this time. Adela and Weatherill shot to their feet, their radiance evoking a gentle "I think we have our answer, bishop" from Lord Dere. Then they were swept up; Weatherill's hand was shaken and Adela's cheek was kissed, and the bishop's secretary Quarrington presented their marriage license to them.

"I thought eight in the morning tomorrow at St. James Piccadilly for the ceremony," said the baron.

"Tomorrow?" Adela and her sister asked in unison.

"It's too late for today, unfortunately," said Lord Porteus with a smile. "I'm afraid all marriages must take place between eight and noon, even those approved and licensed by the bishop of London."

"And if you are married early," continued the baron, "there would still be time for a post chaise to carry us back to Oxford by evening."

"But—will Della remain in London with Mr. Weatherill after she is married?" Jane asked in an unsteady voice.

"Another choice she must make," answered Lord Dere. "Weatherill, did you tell her of the little school?"

"There was no opportunity," answered Weatherill, having the grace to blush, for there would have been plenty of time to tell his bride of the little school if they hadn't spent so many minutes kissing each other. Turning to her now, he said, "By his grace and favor, Lord Dere has offered to me—to us —the lease of a building in Oxford, in Cornmarket Street beside the town hall. There Keele and I might keep a school, in addition to working on the next volume of Antiquities ."

"I thought we might call it ‘School for Scandal,' Miss Barstow," interposed the old scholar with a wink, "but Weatherill here preferred ‘Keele's.'"

"If you liked, Adela, we might return with your sister and the baron to Iffley at once," her intended continued, "and stay either at Iffley Cottage or—"

"Yes!" cried Adela before he could finish his sentence. "Oh, yes, let us do that!"

He laughed, swinging her hands in his. "I was going to say, or we might stay here in town at my lodging house and show you more of London."

"Home again to Iffley Cottage, if you please," insisted Adela, laughing with him. "The only question is, where on earth will we put you?"

The following morning Mr. Parker of St. James Piccadilly joined Mr. Gerard Weatherill and Miss Adela Barstow in holy matrimony, with Lord Dere, Mr. William Keele, and Mrs. Roger Merritt bearing witness. Adela would remember ever after the sun peeping from behind the clouds to illuminate the gilded trim of the church interior and the airy, graceful carvings of fruit and flowers and symbols above the altar. The rector was quite proud of his church and would have given them a detailed tour after they signed the register, but when Mr. Parker spent ten minutes on Grinling Gibbons' baptismal font alone, the baron thanked him graciously, pressing a generous fee into his hands and allowing them to escape to breakfast.

And just as the baron planned, they were on the road before noon, rolling and rattling over the turnpike roads, Adela's arm wound comfortably through that of her dozing husband.

There was so much to be thought of, so much to be decided! How many pupils could the school take, and what was required for their room and board? I will talk to Mrs. Terry. She will know about such things. Ah, but the rector receives his tithes in addition to the boys' fees. Will we have enough? Might Gordy and Peter Dere be counted on as day pupils? If the baron already had his coachmen taking Peter to the rectory every day, might he not consider driving him instead—and Gordy too—to Oxford? Adela suspected the baron would authorize it, if she asked him, but heaven knew he had already done so much!

He has been an angel, she thought, lifting her eyes to him on the opposite seat where he gazed out the window. Jane had collapsed against him in sleep and would doubtless be mortified when she awoke, but he bore this, as he did most things, with his usual calm.

I dread to think what he has already spent on my family since we came to Iffley, Adela's thoughts raced on, and now, having just lived down the scandal of engaging himself to me, he must announce that I have jilted him for the disreputable tutor! Poor, poor Lord Dere!

Despite her pity, her lips twitched, and a giggle escaped her. The baron glanced over at once, raising a questioning brow.

"I was thinking what burdens I have placed upon you, sir," she whispered, "financial and otherwise. And how you will have still more to bear when we are home. Gossip and wonder and such. I am so, so sorry. You have only ever repaid me with kindness. Will you forgive me?"

He met this with a dismissive wave and a shake of the head. "If it relieves you, Adela, I will say so. But whatever I may have spent or endured," he replied, "I believe I will be rewarded with greater peace and harmony at Perryfield."

"How so, sir?"

"You're an intelligent girl, so I think you will understand when I say that, no matter the awkward way in which our engagement ended, Mrs. Markham Dere will take enormous comfort in remaining the mistress of Perryfield. I would venture to guess, in fact, that she will never utter a syllable of reproach regarding any of this. Rather, she will likely make life at Perryfield as pleasant as can be for me from now on, lest I ever frighten her again with another engagement."

Though his tone was teasing, Adela said dolefully, "You would never have frightened her with this engagement, sir, if I had not forced you into it. Oh, do say you forgive me!"

"Hush, my dear," he soothed. "I only wish you had felt easy enough to confide your cares in me, that we might have arrived at a solution together. Such desperate measures you took! You will have some neighborhood chatter of your own to bear in the coming weeks."

But he beamed as he spoke, and Adela was too happy in any case to fear further scandal. Now that she was married to her beloved Gerard, never to be separated again, the rest of the world might say what they liked and think what they liked and do what they liked, with her blessing.

Thus with a lighter conscience and a contented smile, Adela rested her head against her husband's shoulder and at last shut her eyes.

The End

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She's determined to learn from her mistakes. He's determined to marry a girl who's never made any. What if love has lessons for them both? The adventures of the Barstow family continue in Mrs. Merritt's Remorse , Book Two of Lord Dere's Dependents.

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Also by Christina Dudley

The Hapgoods of Bramleigh series of Regency romances

The Ellsworth Assortment series of Regency romances

Pride and Preston Lin

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