Chapter 4

I'll look to like, if looking liking move.

—Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet, I.iii.482 (1597)

As if it were a Sunday, the next day found the Barstows dressed and neat, even Maria, who needed egg wiped from her mouth, and Gordon, who went exploring with Poppet before breakfast. Frances dripped blood on her black-and-white striped muslin when Outlaw climbed her arm, but that was remedied as well before they set out for Perryfield.

"Don't run, Gordy, at least this first time," admonished Adela as her younger brother did just that. "It wouldn't do to arrive perspiring and disheveled."

"If only we had a carriage of our own," Frances sighed. "I don't see why Lord Dere didn't send his coach again."

"But how could he know when we might like to call?" her sister asked reasonably. "I suppose if we had sent Irving to demand it, Lord Dere would have been willing enough—he has in every other way tried to be welcoming and considerate." She blushed as she said it, thinking that later everyone might say, Oh, yes, Adela was predisposed to like the baron. She came determined to like him.

As the footman Harker promised, the walk to Perryfield took them beside the Upper Field, now harvested, though along its edge burgundy and purple blooms of great burnet and knapweed encroached from the marshier Iffley Meadow to the other side, where cows now grazed. The church way gave onto Tree Lane, the former "sheep way" in medieval times, which led in the direction of Wallingford Way, the road which had brought them from Oxford.

"That must be it!" cried Gordon, hopping and pointing to a pair of chimneys visible over a long stone wall taller than their heads. They were obligated to follow this wall for some distance, but it was punctuated by an arch, enclosing what appeared to be the stone frame and traceries of a lovely window, only there was no glass. Crowding to peer through, they saw a spreading, square lawn, enclosed by the same wall and bordered by flower beds. At the far end of the greenery stood the great ivy-bearded house: symmetrical and constructed of the same glowing stone, mullioned windows marching the length of each of the three storeys like playing cards laid upon a table.

"Very elegant," murmured Sarah, shifting Bash from one hip to the other.

"And ten times as large as our cottage," Frances observed. "Do you think Lord Dere might trade with us? There are seven of us and only three of them."

"Plus servants," Adela reminded her. "Running a large house requires many more servants. Nor did you count Mr. Weatherill the tutor."

"Four, then, plus servants," amended Frances. "Though Mr. Weatherill is somewhere between family and servant. But if we traded houses, Lord Dere and Mrs. Markham Dere and the Peter boy would leave all those servants at Perryfield, so it would still make more sense…"

"Come, come," prompted Mrs. Barstow. "Let us make our call. There is no use in debating impossibilities, and my cousin has already been exceptionally generous."

Adela's heart thumped faster and threatened to take flight when the footman admitted them and led the way to the drawing room, a light-filled, white-plastered space, as spacious as the sitting room at Iffley Cottage was cramped. Across the vast carpet were grouped light Sheraton chairs and sofas of sycamore inlaid with Satinwood, each arrangement attended by matching pedestal tables. The pianoforte held pride of place in a corner, while marquetry bookcases flanked the fireplace, one enclosing a cylinder-desk so cunningly made Adela would have wept to write letters at it.

But these were things she noticed later.

"Mrs. Gordon Barstow, Mrs. Sebastian Barstow, Miss Barstow, Miss Frances Barstow, Miss Maria Barstow, Master Gordon Barstow, and—er—Master Sebastian Barstow," declared the footman Wood in his best colorless tone, but really he was counting the chairs to ensure there were enough.

One part of Adela's mind did the same thing—the Barstows were always such a crowd wherever they went, even without Jane—while the other part panicked. There he is! Lord Dere!

Not a heavy, gouty old man at all. In fact, he was rather slender, with silver hair and pale blue eyes and a smooth brow. Kindly in appearance. When he straightened from his bow, his lips parted to greet them, but Mrs. Markham Dere beat him to it.

"You are most welcome to Perryfield," she smiled coolly, extending her shapely arms (and displaying to advantage her sheer muslin shawl with its fine leaf embroidery. She was a handsome woman, all gleaming golden hair and classical proportions, and it was plain she was used to exciting admiration. "And I do hope Iffley Cottage is to your liking. How many happy years Mr. Dere and I spent there. You must meet my son Peter, as well, if Wood will summon him. He might be with his tutor Mr. Weatherill, whom I hear you have already met."

"Thank you, Mrs. Dere," said Mrs. Barstow as the footman retreated and they all chose seats, she taking Maria beside her and Adela raising an eyebrow to remind Gordon of his manners. "We did indeed meet Mr. Weatherill. But allow me to express at once our family's heartfelt gratitude for the offer of Iffley Cottage—" She would have addressed Lord Dere alone and called it " your cottage," but Mrs. Markham Dere's putting herself forward had thrown Mrs. Barstow into confusion, and she ended in looking from one to the other.

His brow knitting, Lord Dere raised a hand to deflect Mrs. Barstow's thankfulness, but before he could speak his niece-in-law took charge again. "I hope you will be happy there," she replied. "While I was mistress of it, Mr. Dere and I took the utmost care of it and were frequently complimented on improvements we made, though I daresay if our family had been as large as yours, Mrs. Barstow, we would undoubtedly have built an addition to it." Her keen eyes narrowed slightly as her gaze swept once more over the little assembly. "But—am I mistaken? Is there not one more Barstow? I do believe Miss Barstow wrote that you were eight altogether. Was—pardon me for not being able to rattle off all your names on the spur of the moment—was one of you too knocked up by the journey to come today?"

So soon the moment was upon them! Mrs. Barstow turned helpless eyes upon Adela, and her oldest daughter rushed to meet the challenge.

"It is Miss Jane Barstow you are thinking of, madam," Adela answered. "My next younger sister. We were indeed eight in number when I wrote to the baron, but—it happens that—Jane will not be joining us in Oxfordshire because—because she is to be married." She could have bitten her tongue after this last phrase—she should have said Jane was already married, to forestall further awkward questions.

But it might not be true.

"Oh, but how delightful!" rejoined Mrs. Markham Dere, sincerely relieved to have the number of penurious dependents reduced by one. "To whom, pray? And did Miss Jane not wish to be married from Iffley Cottage with you all beside her?"

Adela swallowed, her face hot. Unable to sustain Mrs. Dere's gaze, she favored the woman with a vague smile and shifted in her seat to include Lord Dere. "Certainly we tried to persuade Jane to…delay a little and accompany us, but her—suitor—a Mr. Roger Merritt—was so insistent that she—let herself be persuaded." The laugh she forced at this point emerged a little high, but since neither of their new acquaintances knew what her laugh ought to sound like, Adela hoped it escaped notice. "Jane would have loved the climbing roses at the cottage, in any event," she hurried on. "Perhaps she and—Mr. Merritt—will visit sometime soon. Though, as you observed, Mrs. Dere, guests will be a squeeze."

"The Merritts would be welcome to stay at Perryfield," spoke up Lord Dere at last, as his niece was drawing breath. "As would any other guests you at Iffley Cottage care to invite."

Mrs. Dere's eyes went round as horrified buttons at the issuing of this carte blanche , but Adela regarded him with genuine appreciation. "Really, my lord? While we are not expecting anyone, we thank you for this further proof of your kindness."

Her words brought a wave of color to his own countenance, and he muttered, "Please—among family I would rather not be ‘my lord.' Let it be ‘sir' or ‘Lord Dere,' if you must, but let us not have any ‘my lord' or ‘your lordship.'"

The Barstows made various sounds of acquiescence, Adela catching Sarah's eye. He truly does not like to draw attention to himself, her look said, and her sister-in-law raised wondering brows in return. It was not as if their acquaintance in Twyford included dozens of peers, but the one grandee in their sphere had insisted on every inch of his title and privilege.

Perhaps wooing him—and marrying him—will not be horrible , Adela thought. A kind, generous, modest man. Though doubtless Mrs. Markham Dere would be harder to get past than any watchdog. Despite hearing of Mrs. Dere's manifold opinions from the maidservant Reed, Adela had still cherished hopes of a sweet, retiring creature like Sarah, rather than this…masterful woman. This woman with her eyes and airs would not be at all eager to see the baron take a young bride and would certainly view such a person as an usurper!

As Mrs. Markham Dere and Mrs. Barstow made polite conversation, Adela studied the Deres beneath her lashes and considered.

She could not charm Lord Dere without first charming (and lulling) his watchdog. But the methods which might best charm the watchdog could very well repel the one held prisoner by it. For no matter how modest Lord Dere might be, Adela did not suppose any baron in the realm would enjoy being under the thumb of a niece by marriage.

It had always been the case since Adela Barstow was a very young girl, that if some unpleasant task loomed in her future, say, a loose tooth to be pulled or a cross old parishioner to be called upon, she could not rest until it was behind her. And if completing the task at once was not a possibility, she at least preferred to make a beginning.

If I am to make my family secure from disgrace and destitution, she ruminated, Lord Dere's heart—or at least his hand—must be won , Mrs. Markham Dere or no Mrs. Markham Dere. I know neither one well enough to form a plan of attack, but the wooing must commence nonetheless.

Waiting for a suitable pause in the talk around her, she turned to address their hostess. "What a lovely instrument that is! You must be a musician, Mrs. Dere. We hope you will play for us sometime because we Barstows are quite fond of music."

"Oh, I don't know about that," Mrs. Dere demurred, the corners of her mouth curling in a deprecating smile. But when both Adela and Mrs. Barstow added cajoling murmurs, she soon yielded. "Certainly, certainly, then, when there is an occasion."

"Let it be today," spoke up Lord Dere. "You all must stay to dinner, and then Mrs. Dere may perform afterward."

"Dinner?" echoed Mrs. Dere, blinking. "My dear sir, that will not be for hours, and perhaps the Barstows did not plan on staying so long. Though we live in the country, we nonetheless seldom dine before three, and I am sure, having just arrived, they must have much to arrange at Iffley Cottage…"

"Oh, yes," Adela agreed quickly. "Thank you, sir, but we could not possibly today, despite the excellent progress we made yesterday. It helped immeasurably, to have the furniture already arranged, and Reed was so good as to pass on some of your ways of doing things, madam." Having petted Mrs. Dere, she looked appealingly at the baron. "But if you had leisure, sir, perhaps we might wander the grounds?"

"I will show you all over them myself," Lord Dere said. "I know Mrs. Dere is not fond of walking out of doors."

But Mrs. Dere had no intention of being left behind. Who knew what other rash promises the man might make? "Nonsense," she returned. "This would be a special occasion. But do you not think, sir, we should begin with the house? That will give Peter time to find us. I am certain he will be sorry if he does not meet Gordon at least. What can be taking Wood so long? Unless Peter has gone to the moon, surely he might have been found by now."

"Might they be in the schoolroom?" Adela ventured. She hoped not. Surely Mr. Weatherill would not have begun instruction without waiting for Gordy.

Gordon himself did not look particularly alarmed at this possibility, but Mrs. Dere swelled at Adela's suggestion. "If Wood hadn't the wit to seek him there—!"

"The schoolroom is on the second floor," interposed the baron in defense of his servant, "and as lessons have not yet begun, I suspect Wood would not go there first. Come, Mrs. Dere. The boy will turn up. Let us begin with the long gallery."

Like all galleries, this impressive space was hung with portraits of past family members and took a long time to go through. It was followed by multiple parlors, a morning room, a dining room, a library, Lord Dere's steward's office, and so on. Before long, Bash fell asleep in his mother's arms, and Sarah elected to wait for them in one of the parlors, Frances offering to keep her company.

That left four Barstows to troop after the Deres to the first floor, where they were shown a number of bedchambers with very fine views (Mrs. Markham Dere inhabiting the loveliest, overlooking the park and rose garden), and where both Gordy and Maria began to show signs of impatience, skipping and running up the passage and hurtling to any windows to look out.

On one side of her, Mrs. Barstow pressed her daughter's arm and, on the other, Mrs. Dere's lips tightened.

"Shall we proceed outside?" Adela proposed. "Mama and I would be glad to linger, but perhaps touring houses would try the patience of a saint, if he happened to be under the age of ten."

Lord Dere was digging in his coat pocket and soon brought out a little tin, which he opened to reveal ginger candies. "From the apothecary," he explained to the children. "When you get old like I do, they soothe the throat. And once your throat is soothed, you imagine it scratchy, that you might have more."

Delighted, Maria and Gordon each took one, as did the baron. Mrs. Barstow and Adela refused the treats with a smile and Mrs. Dere with a shudder, but harmony was restored.

I like him , Adela thought. Not to marry, but simply as a kind old gentleman .

Her complacency did not last long, however, for Mrs. Dere's fair brow creased in annoyance. "Where can Peter be? I daresay, Mrs. Barstow, you will not mind taking a minute to see the schoolroom where Gordon will be taught? It is only one more set of stairs, and then we might at least rule that out."

Of course no one made objections, though Adela's skin prickled. There was no more reason for Mr. Weatherill to be found in the schoolroom than Peter, if lessons had not yet begun, she told herself. But suppose they had? You can hardly avoid Mr. Weatherill if you intend to be much at Perryfield. And she must be much at Perryfield.

Following the others, Adela absently worried at her lip. She noted that the baron neither shuffled nor stooped, and he had no difficulty in climbing the stairs to the second floor, though these were narrower and steeper than the grand staircase from the ground floor to the first, but no sooner did she make these observations than they became bound up in her growing uneasiness. What am I thinking? Am I out of my mind? A girl my age should be dreaming of dashing young men who evoke heart flutterings, not congratulating herself that her chosen one's rheumatism is not too far advanced!

Perhaps, instead of marrying him, she should simply confess Jane's misadventure and throw the Barstows on his further mercy. She felt certain already that he would not expel them, though he might regret having been so generous. He might suffer them as a blot upon the family and wish them gone, even as they clung on. Certainly Mrs. Markham Dere would be at him day and night to send them away, and any hope of marriage portions or little independences or allowances to Adela's younger siblings would have to be abandoned altogether.

No, no, no. Adela steeled herself once more. Needs must go when the devil drives. Her plan must go forward, and fie upon all heart flutterings and dashing young men!