Chapter 3

Behold now, the place where we dwell with thee is too strait for us.

—2 Kings 6:1, The Authorized Version (1611)

Iffley Cottage was separated from the road by only a square courtyard planted with grass and flower borders and enclosed by a low stone wall. The home itself was modest and square, two storeys built of rubble, with a half-tile, half-slate roof and window shutters painted a charming dark blue. On the south and west faces roses climbed, though this late in the summer only one variety still bloomed. When compared to the humbler, low rubble-and-thatch cottages they had passed, Iffley Cottage looked positively elegant, and Sarah touched Adela's arm, smiling. "The charming yard! We may sit outside on fine days."

It was on the tip of Adela's tongue to reply, "And how Jane will love the roses!" but she caught herself.

After Harker assisted them to alight, Mrs. Barstow clasped her hands together, eyes welling in silent gratitude, and Adela was scarcely less moved. The home might be too small for so many; it might be theirs on sufferance; it might only hold them until scandal broke; but it was charming.

Harker observed their response with satisfaction while Ogle fetched their portmanteaux. "You'll find it as tidy and trim inside as out," he declared. "Lord Dere gave orders that it be so, and he sent men over to meet the removers when they came and will send them again if everything isn't placed to your liking."

"Thank you," Adela replied, seeing her mother still unable to speak. "The baron is too kind. Please send to him our thanks and compliments on his health."

"Is Perryfield far from here?" asked Mr. Weatherill.

Adela started, to find him over her shoulder, ruined neckcloth and all, but it was not continued remorse over Outlaw's depredations which made her take a tiny step away. It was—she didn't know. Perhaps…embarrassment? Now that they stood before the very real and solid Iffley Cottage and their meeting with Lord Dere loomed, her intended campaign to win the baron's heart was no longer simply theoretical. It would begin as soon as the next day when they called. And for such an undertaking, surely the fewer spectators the better. In fact, Adela had only considered the scrutiny (and possible disapproval) of her family and the Deres, but now it occurred to her that Lord Dere would have a whole household of onlookers with opinions. And beyond these there would be his friends and acquaintances and even the larger community where he was the grand seigneur . Heavens! Adela's wooing of him would take place not in isolation but before a great cloud of witnesses, as it were. A great, great cloud of witnesses.

She put out a hand to steady herself on Frances' bony shoulder.

Harker was pointing. "'Bout three-quarters of a mile east, sir, if you follow the Upper Field and Tree Lane, just before it crosses Wallingford Way. There was a glimpse of the Perryfield park as we came." He looked measuringly at Gordon. "Nice dry ground, not marshy like by the river. A boy like you could run it in under ten minutes, and on a frosty day it might be a fifteen-minute walk, with plenty of time for stopping to look at anything interesting along the way."

"Let me try now!" cried the boy. "Has anyone got a watch?"

"It had better wait, Gordy," said Adela. "Mama will have to accompany all of us, the first time, for we do not even know Lord Dere, to look at him. Besides, don't you want to see what the cottage looks like inside?"

Robbed of his footrace to inspect rooms filled with the same furniture he had seen all his life, Gordon's shoulders drooped a fraction, but Mr. Weatherill said, "Speaking of not knowing Lord Dere to look at him, Gordon, imagine the baron's response when I am deposited on his doorstep in a few minutes, a day earlier than anyone expects. One perfect stranger appearing without warning is distressing enough, but two would be — "

"Yes, I suppose you're right, sir," Gordon agreed, and Adela threw the tutor a grateful glance.

After a hesitation (in which he realized he was just standing there gazing at her), Weatherill made a hasty bow and backed toward the waiting coach. "Well, good day to you all. We will meet soon enough again at Perryfield."

"Yes, and—Mr. Weatherill—again, our apologies for Outlaw and—the damage to your neckcloth," answered Adela. She would have added that they would be glad to mend it for him but decided the offer would be awkward. Surely one of the maids at Perryfield could be of assistance.

The tutor made another bow before climbing back into the coach, Harker neatly folding the steps behind him and hopping to his place.

And the Barstows were left to their new life.

Mrs. Barstow took Adela's hand. "Do you think a letter from Jane will be waiting?"

The same thought had crossed Adela's mind, but she answered, as much to herself as to her mother, "We had better not count on it. She will not have reached Scotland yet."

If Jane and Roger Merritt ever made it to Scotland . Though she did not voice this last thought aloud, she knew it was on her mother's mind, and Adela gave herself a shake. "Come on, then, Barstows! Let us see inside."

With a whoop, Maria thrust Outlaw at Frances, and she and Gordon raced for the door, poor Poppet swinging in his basket and the others not far behind them.

When they had trooped all through it, led by the maid Reed, with manservant Irving bringing up the rear, they returned to the sitting room off the entry, one of only two rooms which might hold everyone comfortably. But even here the sofa and armchairs and escritoire and tables from Twyford left little unoccupied space.

"Goodness," said Adela, with a helpless laugh. "What a mercy we sold the pianoforte."

"And that Jane didn't come—" began Frances, breaking off abruptly when Adela shot her a sharp look and Sarah succumbed to violent coughing. "Oh—er—that is—"

"Mrs. Markham Dere had a great deal fewer things in here, and she had a pianoforte," spoke up Reed. Though the Barstows had only known the maid-of-all-work a scant hour, they were already daunted by her: tall, stern, prominent of nose, firm of opinion, and commanding of voice. "Irving and I had our hands full with the removers and arranging what we could."

Adela imagined it was Reed who had her hands full, for Irving was thankfully a smaller, quieter man who bowed a great deal and spoke hardly a word except when someone addressed him.

"Yes, it must have been trying," Adela said to soothe her. "Now that we are here, I daresay a few more things might go, to make space. But for now, Reed, Irving, if you would excuse us…? We must decide who will have which bedchamber, and I fear there might be unseemly squabbling."

When the servants were gone and the door shut, Mrs. Barstow sighed. "They will know about Jane soon enough, I suppose. Even if they have not already wondered, we must explain to Lord Dere, and the Perryfield servants will talk."

"Well, a few more hours of peace is nothing to sniff at," Adela said, "and at least we might be spared what Mrs. Markham Dere's opinion on the matter would have been."

The others laughed, for there had indeed been a great deal of "this is where Mrs. Markham Dere stored the linens" and "Mrs. Markham Dere did not use this room as a bedchamber but as her dressing room" and "Mrs. Markham Dere preferred the curtains on this window to be shut at all times."

"Besides," Adela continued, "it's true enough that we might squabble over the bedrooms. They are not overlarge. Even Mrs. Markham Dere's dressing room! She must be a slender person, if she managed to dress there."

"May I have the dressing room?" asked Gordon, bouncing on his chair. "Bash can share it with me when he's older."

"Only if Bash stays the size he is now forever," scoffed Frances. She caught up Poppet and wagged a finger in the dog's face. "Poppet, Outlaw, I am sorry to tell you, but Mrs. Markham Dere did not approve of lapdogs or other pets. She said there were animals enough abroad."

"I don't like Mrs. Markham Dere," frowned little Maria.

"Hush, darling. We don't yet know her, and she might be perfectly amiable," Mrs. Barstow said.

"Yes," agreed Adela. "All that talk of her might just be Reed expressing her own notions. And certainly we too will have our decided opinions about how we will live in Iffley Cottage, now that we are mistresses here. Mrs. Gordon Barstow, for one, heartily approves of lapdogs and other pets."

"So I do," smiled her mother.

"But the bedrooms!" Gordon reminded them. "Mrs. Markham Dere's dressing room is like a secret cupboard."

"That it is," Adela meditated. "But I think it more sensible if Sarah takes the room beside the cupboard because of the door between. Bash might sleep in the cupboard."

"But Bash and I cannot occupy two entire rooms!" protested Sarah. "That would leave the five of you to cram into the two remaining."

"Perhaps Gordy should take the cupboard for now," Mrs. Barstow said. "And Sarah and Bash the room adjoining. Then, when Bash is older, the boys might have the bigger room, and either Sarah or I would exchange for the cupboard."

"That could work, Mama," Adela took this up. "And in the meantime, you shall take the little room with the blue paper, and Frances, Maria and I will take the front bedroom with the green."

"Three of you in one room! No, Adela, you had better take the blue room, then. I think it's a little bigger."

But Sarah was shaking her head. "I suspect they are the same size. Adela, suppose you shared with me and Bash? He rarely, rarely wakes up at night now, and you saw how they placed the beds: one in each of the rooms. If you shared with Frances and Maria, a second bed would need to be stuffed into either the blue or green bedrooms, and I hardly believe it possible."

Adela hardly believed it possible either, upon consideration. What would they have done, if Jane had not eloped? Then one of them—probably Adela herself—would have had to share a bed with Mrs. Barstow. She was not the only one to suppress a sigh and put on a good face. Iffley Cottage might have served a family of three well, but for seven…

Better than the workhouse! she reminded herself dryly. Far better.

They later discovered that the two smaller mattresses which could not be made to fit in the cottage were stacked upright in a shed, alongside surplus miscellany (such as Frances' workbasket and Maria's bookcase), Irving's garden tools, and Reed's cheesemaking apparatus.

The rest of the day was spent in arranging their belongings and getting in each other's way, before sitting down to a cold meal generously sent from Perryfield, and finally collapsing upon their (mostly) shared beds. And after such a long, long, distressing day, not even the thought of Jane or the fear of meeting Lord Dere on the morrow could keep Adela awake, and she fell at once into a deep sleep.

Some five minutes away by road, Gerard Weatherill leaned from the open casement of his bedchamber at Perryfield, coat brushed and hung, mangled neckcloth repaired as best he could—oh, yes, he knew basic sewing—shirt open at the neck to catch any breeze.

He had done it.

He had escaped.

For what other word could be used to describe slipping the bonds which had held him throughout his youth and early manhood? Though for years he had dreamed of leaving, he had remained for his younger sister's sake. Next year, he had told himself. And then, when the time was gone— next year will be soon enough. Until the refrain became, When Susanna is of age , then nothing will prevent us going.

But her health, always delicate, suffered in the frigid winter of '98-99, failing to recover in the months of dank grey and constant rain which followed. And then at last, as the calendar turned and the new century lay before them, the old woman whom Weatherill paid to sit with Susanna in his absence summoned him from his teaching duties to his sister's side.

"You must go, Gerard," Susanna urged hoarsely, her hand almost weightless in his. "Promise me. You have wasted too many years already, waiting for me and hoping Father would change. Now you will be free."

His brows drew together as he shook his head. "No. No, Susanna. Together. We will go together."

"…Better this way. I would have…been a burden."

" No ."

"I…could not have…worked."

"Please, Susanna. You were never a burden." How could she be? Though she was ten years younger, she had been his faithful companion. The only one who understood what it meant to be a child of Rioting Rob.

No, indeed. Gerard knew the truth of the verse that two were better than one, "for if they fall, the one will lift up his fellow."

But before he could swallow his tears to remind her of this, she was gone.

Rioting Rob was exactly where Gerard knew he would be—where he always was—on the second gallery, in the large room above the chapel where the billiard table was found. When his son appeared, Rob Weatherill took one look at his face and threw his cue down.

"Aaarh," the respected sire grunted. He swayed, his mouth working, before scraping both hands through his silvering hair and shambling toward the door. When they were alone in the passage he asked, "Did Susie have any last words for her pappy?"

"I'm—afraid she was gone before they could be spoken," replied his son.

"She was a good girl. Like her mother. Better than I deserved."

There was nothing to say to this, but Gerard nodded. Yes. Susanna Weatherill had been a good girl. Like her mother. And neither one had deserved a father or husband as shiftless and imprudent as Robert Weatherill.

"You'll be going then," his father said. It was a declaration, rather than a question. His gaze was unnaturally penetrating as he studied his son.

"I hope to," answered Gerard.

At the other end of the passage familiar faces appeared, and they were soon calling to the popular Rob, who lifted a hand like a king greeting his subjects.

"Might we discuss this in your chamber—sir?" Gerard asked.

After seven years in the Fleet Prison, Rob Weatherill had worked his way into one of the larger rooms in the wings, this one over the coffee-room in the hall gallery. Though the rent paid to the tapster for it was higher, and though he no longer had any family members sharing the space with him, he considered the eight shillings paid per week a consequence of his consequence, as it were. Rioting Rob must be seen to live like Rioting Rob, however little that left to pay his long-suffering creditors or to support his ailing daughter.

"Not going to my chamber," his father replied, a note of defiance rising in his voice. "I'll be in the tap-room." The tap-room, where he reigned supreme. He started down the passage, leaving Gerard no choice but to follow.

"I'll be advertising, sir," he announced to his father's retreating back. "For a position at a school or as a tutor."

Robert Weatherill stopped so abruptly that Gerard almost ran him down. "This is Keele's doing, I'll be bound. So you aim to pass yourself off as a pedant? What will you call yourself?" he jeered. "‘Gerard Weatherill, fellow of Fleet College'? ‘The Scholar of Shoe Lane,' perhaps?"

"Mr. Keele says he has taught me all he knows," Gerard said, the muscle along his jaw beginning to stand out. "And he, at least, is an Oxford graduate."

Weatherill Senior's upper lip curled, but Gerard was old enough now to understand the poison of his father's barbs drew its potency from his own shame and disappointment with life. "Oxford graduate, fiddlestick," he railed. "What is Keele now but a sham schoolmaster—a worthless, hopeless debtor—propping himself up by teaching worthless, hopeless debtors' spawn in the Liberty of the Fleet? Well, go on, then. You're of age. No sense in you rotting here any longer. Go as far as you can. Change your name, if you like. I'll have no more to do with you."

"I will write to you, Father."

"As you please." Rob Weatherill thrust a hand in the inner pocket of his coat and came up with a half-crown. With a flick of his thumb, he tossed it at his son. "Here. To pay for Susie's—for whoever the parish sends to—prepare her." A telltale break in his voice seemed to infuriate him, for without another word or backward glance, he swept away from his only remaining child.

So here Gerard was in Oxfordshire, for no other reason than that Mrs. Markham Dere's letter was the sole response to his advertisement. Her own notice had yielded several candidates, but most of these she dismissed because, as she put it in her reply, "I would like my son Peter to be educated by someone who will not only shape his mind, but also impart to him some London polish." That is, surrounded by Oxford dons, their perceived sameness and familiarity repelled her. Gerard Weatherill could only hope his new employer never discovered exactly how exceedingly worldly and un polished his London background was. He had hoped, of course, to remove somewhere much, much further from London, but beggars could be no choosers.

Lord Dere, thankfully, was not the sort of baron who removed in state to the capital for each legislative season (Mrs. Markham Dere had explained with a sigh), and the quiet life of Perryfield, isolated even from the bustle of Oxford, promised further welcome obscurity. Here Weatherill could live quietly and teach for a year or two, and then perhaps sue for a new post in one of the more anonymous industrial towns to the north.

Weatherill pulled the casement shut and turned to regard the room assigned to him. On the second floor, neither family bedchamber nor servant quarter, it might be appropriate for a visiting poor relation. Older, mismatched furniture; a view to the side of the house rather than the park; a smaller fireplace enclosed by a plain mantel devoid of knick-knacks. And yet it was the largest and most elegant room he had ever occupied. As large as Rioting Rob's over the coffee-room, he thought dryly. An eight-shilling-a-week room, if ever there was one. If only Susanna could have seen this!

But Susanna was right. If she had lived, he would never have left her, and if he had taken her with him, he would not have been given this position.

When he put out the candle and settled himself in the vast bed, however, his last thought before sleep was neither of Susanna nor of his father. It was of an overcrowded coach and a young lady whose lively brown eyes peeped at him around the active young boy on her lap.