Chapter 5

Whence commest thou in these Pitiful rusty cloaths?

—Gordon Burnell, translation of Aristophanes' The World's Idol, sig.B2 (1659)

"The schoolroom here to the left is the largest room on this floor," Mrs. Dere gestured when she reached the landing. "It is a suite of three rooms, actually, with the door you will see leading to the tutor's personal quarters. As for the rest,"—pointing down the passage—"these are the servants' bedchambers."

The door to the schoolroom stood ajar, and the next moment it was thrown wide when Peter Dere peeked out. "Mama, come see! Mr. Weatherill and I are preparing the schoolroom." He stopped to stare at Gordon Barstow, and the two boys took each other's measure.

Gordy being older, his mother and sister were relieved to find he was also an inch taller. Already at a disadvantage as the poor relations, it would have gone hard with them if Peter Dere been a great, strapping, handsome boy, in addition to being Lord Dere's heir. But, no, Peter's appearance was in all respects typical, and Gordon's larger size (and the self-consequence he drew from imagining himself the man of the Barstow family) effectively counterbalanced Peter's superiority in fortune and connection.

"Come in," the tutor called to them, sending a frisson through Adela, and the man himself appeared the next moment. He was dressed as shabbily as the day before, though his neckcloth was repaired. The late summer sunlight filtering through the window made both his red-brown hair and the rusty patches of his clothing shine, so that one was torn between admiring his handsomeness and lamenting his condition. At least, Adela was. The charity school which formerly employed him must have taught the lowliest of pupils, if they paid their teachers so poorly! She rather wondered that Mrs. Markham Dere had not changed her mind on the spot about hiring him to instruct the heir to Perryfield.

A glance at the woman almost made Adela giggle, for it was plain the mistress of Perryfield was asking herself exactly that question. Perhaps she had assumed his worn appearance the previous day derived from the arduousness of travel.

And perhaps Adela was not the only one to read Mrs. Dere's mind, for she saw the tutor flush as he made his bow. But his chin lifted, a muscle twitching in his jaw. "Peter was helping me arrange things. You see the desks and appurtenances all in order."

"I've chosen this one," Peter told Gordon, placing a hand on the square deal desk nearer the window. His eyes narrowed as he spoke, as if he expected Gordon to argue, but Gordon thought haggling over such trifles with a younger boy beneath him, and he merely gave a nod.

"I thought we might begin Monday of next week at ten o'clock," continued Mr. Weatherill. "Would that hour give you enough time for your breakfast and the walk over, Gordon?"

"I could send the chariot for you, lad," suggested Lord Dere. "The weather is not always this fine. Harker could fetch you and Ogle return you every day."

Adela saw Gordon's eyes light at this proposal, and she knew he was picturing being allowed to drive himself, once the servants were won over, but even if she had not doubted the wisdom of this scheme, she had reasons of her own for interposing. "We thank you, sir, but on days which are not absolutely wretched, the walk will be good for Gordon—and me—for I will accompany him at least—until he is older."

Gordon frowned awfully at her, for making him look like a baby in front of Peter Dere, but she ignored him. "Yes, I and whoever else may care to join me, of a morning—we will ensure my brother's timely attendance."

Mrs. Dere struggled for words, torn equally between dread at having her drawing room constantly cluttered with Barstows and dread at the littlest Barstow having a carriage sent daily for him—what a burden upon the servants! How it would be gossiped about as a mark of favor! And into this breach Lord Dere said, "I approve heartily of fresh air and exercise, so I will not gainsay you, Miss Barstow, except to say the offer will stand, should you change your mind."

Adela made no reply except to smile at him and bow her head in acknowledgement.

"How—how Peter loves fresh air and exercise as well!" cried Mrs. Dere, determined to regain the upper hand. "We were just about to give the Barstows a tour of the gardens and park, Peter, which is why we came to fetch you."

"I've seen it a thousand times," he declared unhelpfully. But then he added, "But I'll come," for it occurred to him he should lay claim to it, lest the new boy think it available.

"I knew you would hate to miss it," replied his mother. "Mr. Weatherill, we will leave you to your preparations."

"Unless you would like to join us," said the baron. "It was too late for you so see the grounds when you arrived yesterday, and you might like to know your way around for your leisure hours."

Both Mrs. Dere and Adela had their reasons for preferring the tutor stay behind, Mrs. Dere because he looked so beggarly and Adela because she did not want him near while she sought to ingratiate herself, but neither of these things could be spoken aloud, and Mr. Weatherill agreed too promptly in any case.

Therefore it was a large and varied party which emerged onto the terrace a few minutes onward, only Sarah remaining within doors to watch over the napping Bash. Lord Dere offered one arm to Mrs. Barstow and the other to his niece, leaving Adela to claim the post on her mother's far side.

"Race you, Gordy," cried Maria, and the two children shot off at once, Peter hesitating a second before scampering after them.

"I hope they will all be friends," murmured Mrs. Barstow.

"Yes, indeed," agreed Adela absently, dismayed to see the graveled path ahead would accommodate a threesome at the most, and unless Adela was willing to tramp through the flowerbeds or clamber over the stone benches and urns which lined their way, she would be forced to fall back and pace beside Frances and Mr. Weatherill. Lord Dere delayed the separation when he halted to point out the statue of a cupid balanced atop a ball and they fanned out to hear him, but when the group resumed their walk, Adela was indeed shunted back.

Moreover, at the baron's age and encumbered as he was with two women, they did not advance quickly, and Frances soon lost patience. "I'll make sure Gordy and Maria don't do anything naughty," she told her sister, before skipping away.

Which left Adela beside the tutor.

Between the crunching of gravel underfoot and the softness of the baron's voice, it was impossible for the entire party to maintain one shared conversation, and Adela soon gave it up with a sigh.

"What's the matter?" asked Weatherill.

Adela glanced at him, her mouth twisting in rueful humor. What would he do if she were to tell him the truth? Suppose she were to say, "I am thwarted in my wish to seduce the baron, but I must make a start because my younger sister has eloped with a scoundrel, and when it is discovered, even our precarious new life may be in jeopardy." Ludicrous! She would have laughed if it were not so dire.

She contented herself with a morsel of the truth. "I had hoped to hear Lord Dere's descriptions."

"You are an enthusiast of gardens, then?"

Another bit of truth escaped. "I am an enthusiast of becoming better acquainted with someone who has been so good to my family."

He nodded at this. "Yes. As his employee, my position in relation to Lord Dere is by nature different from yours, Miss Barstow, but I too hope my situation at Perryfield will prove satisfactory."

Adela made another face under her bonnet brim. "If your position is different, sir, I would argue that it is preferable to ours."

"How so?"

"You offer Lord Dere a service: you teach his great-nephew and heir—not to mention his cousin's son—in return for a salary. But we Barstows…we are little more than parasites, I suppose. We take, giving nothing in return."

A more worldly man—a courtly man—would have spun her admission into flattery. He would have smiled lazily upon her and said something like, "A host of lovely ladies must be its own reward." But if Gerard Weatherill may have thought such a thing, he had not the experience to voice it.

Not at all.

Rather he said gruffly, "I suppose even the wealthy have their crosses to bear."

Crosses! Adela inhaled sharply, the fact that she had just implied as much herself, and the additional fact that it was the mere truth, doing nothing to soothe the sting of his words. In her chagrin her head dropped even lower, so that Weatherill could see nothing of her expression. But, as with her sigh, he heard her caught breath. And endured, as well, the heavy pause which followed.

They had reached the first corner of the gravel path, where marble benches were placed in an L, should anyone prefer to sit and take in the vista over the park, rolling away to woodland. Mrs. Markham Dere immediately plumped down with her back to the view, fanning herself and looking around for the children.

As much to get away from Mr. Weatherill as to seize the opportunity, Adela wandered up to her mother and Lord Dere.

"Are the woodlands part of Perryfield, sir?"

"They are. As I was telling Mrs. Barstow…"

She tried to listen, really she did, but her temper was still rising. Crosses to bear, indeed! No matter what he thought, on such minimal acquaintance he had no right to call the Barstows such a thing. No right at all. Even among friends it would hardly be excusable.

When Mrs. Dere was sufficiently recovered to take the baron's arm again, the party resumed its stroll, Weatherill trying without success to catch Adela's eye. He even offered an arm in its worn sleeve to support her, but if she saw, she disdained to make use of it.

Adela knew she should not return to the subject, if she spoke at all, but with the burning in her heart she could not help herself.

"Mr. Weatherill—" her voice was pitched low, to reach only his ears, and she swallowed hard to prevent it shaking. "You—agreed—that we Barstows—we—" (in frustration at her inarticulateness she pinched herself just above her glove). "That is—what would you do in our position, Mr. Weatherill? If you, too, found yourself someone else's cross to bear? A millstone around some unfortunate's neck? What would you advise?"

Gerard Weatherill might have little to no experience dealing with young ladies other than his late sister Susanna, but even he realized he had offended her. "Miss Barstow—I—my choice of words—"

"You are of course a man ," Adela continued crisply, "which means you have more avenues to self-sufficiency than a household of burdensome women, but indulge me. What would you do if you did not have those avenues open to you?"

"A woman may teach," he said, as if determined to cut his own throat.

"So I might become a governess or teach in a school? Yes, yes, I might, and that would certainly spare my family—or I should say Lord Dere—the trouble of feeding and sheltering me," Adela rejoined. "I wonder I did not think of it."

"Miss Barstow, I am sure you did think of it."

She gave a brittle laugh. "Why, you are right! I did think of it. Ad infinitum, as you scholars would put it. Indeed, ad nauseam. More than once, that is to say, in the few months wherein my father declined and died, my brother having died in a short space before that. I thought, Adela, you had better take yourself off at once and earn your keep. Never mind that Mama is bedridden with grief and Sarah little better, and Jane is—" here she choked momentarily on a sob or gasp or simply from the rush of words spilling out pell mell, but she forced whatever it was back down and went on— " that is, never mind, Adela, that you are the only one remaining to take the children in hand and come up with a plan—any plan— some sort of plan—for the future, now that you must get out of the only home you have ever known— "

Mr. Weatherill had soon raised a hand to halt this speech, horrified at the Pandora's box he had opened, but Adela took no more notice of his hand than she had of his arm, and he was obliged to step swiftly in front of her, directly in her path, so that she must either stop or collide with him.

"Forgive me, Miss Barstow," he blurted, holding up one placating hand. "I misspoke. My suggestion was idiotic. Glib. Of course you, being an intelligent creature, considered the obvious possibilities."

Adela shut her eyes hard, feeling her face go all-over scarlet. Oh, heavens. Heavens, heavens, heavens. Why, she was a madwoman for such an outburst! What had come over her, to fire up at him like that? As if anything which had befallen the Barstows had a jot to do with Mr. Weatherill, whom she had only met the day before, for pity's sake. He certainly could not help being born a man. He could not help having more choice in life than she did.

Reluctantly, she opened her eyes again to find him watching her, brow knit in concern. To make matters worse, the sun sailed from behind a cloud as if in divine reproach, bathing Mr. Weatherill in its beams and displaying to disadvantage every ill-fitting seam and worn patch of his clothing.

He hasn't a penny more than you do, Adela Barstow, she imagined the sun chiding, clicking its fiery tongue, yet you fly at him for taking you at your word. You fly at him because you are unhappy with yourself.

"Mr. Weatherill," she murmured at last, seeing her mother glance back when the pair fell behind, "I am ashamed of myself. Thoroughly ashamed. I have behaved very badly, and it is you who must pardon me. What I said just now—my…unfortunate tirade—would have been better directed at—at Fate than at you, and for that I apologize."

But his thoughts had ranged quickly over what had passed, to determine his part in provoking her, and he replied with equal quietness, "In light of the painful circumstances pressing upon you all—which I cannot pretend ignorance of, after riding with you in the coach yesterday—I should not have called you ‘crosses to bear.'"

"No, please do not attempt to excuse me," she sighed. "Where was the fault in your words, when I said as much myself? And in your further defense, at least you did not call us ‘parasites,' as I did."

His mouth twitched. "If I had, I daresay you would have knocked me to the ground."

Her head whipping up at this, a pair of brown eyes searched him with a look so measuring that Weatherill's shrinking under it was only half in jest. But far from taking fire anew, Adela felt a curious little bubble rise in her chest, and she surprised both of them when it escaped in a giggle.

"Dear me, Mr. Weatherill. What a termagant you must think me. Thank you for taking my misconduct so graciously."

"It shall be buried in oblivion, Miss Barstow—at least on my part—and I hope you will excuse my own clumsiness. I…have no great experience with subtlety or the courtesies required by polite society."

Having forgotten his earlier vagueness about his own origins, the familiar shadow now falling across his countenance recalled it to her, and she heard herself say, "Haven't you? What…sort of pupils did you teach at your former school?"

Though he smiled, it did not reach his eyes, and she had the curious feeling he was withdrawing inside himself and closing the door behind him. "The poor sort, Miss Barstow," he answered. "The burdensome sort. You might even call it a case of the poor teaching the poor." With an inclination of his head toward Mrs. Markham Dere, he added, "I suspect if the lowly status of my students had been more clearly understood—"

He broke off, but Adela guessed the rest. If Mrs. Dere had known more of Mr. Weatherill's background or appearance, she might never have hired him as her son's tutor. Who knew, but that the worthy woman might still rouse herself to object and send him packing? Mr. Weatherill's position in the Perryfield orbit might be no more certain than the Barstows'.

"I understand you," Adela said simply. Much as she would like to satisfy her curiosity and ask another probing question or two, she wanted even more to see him brighten again. "Perhaps now, because we have mutually mistaken and mutually pardoned each other, we might make a new start."

Her words answered the purpose, and Mr. Weatherill emerged again, in a manner of speaking, to beam at her. He really had a very winning smile, with a dimple in one cheek so deep his mother must have loved to press her finger into it.

"Yes," he answered at once. "Let us shake hands mentally on our bargain, Miss Barstow. Nothing makes a better foundation for friendship than a breach which has been repaired."

By this time the group had nearly completed its circuit of the gardens, and had they parted there for the afternoon, Adela would have tripped away, congratulating herself on having made her first friend in Oxfordshire.

But, alas.

Just as they passed a second cupid balanced atop a second ball, this one smirking at its counterpart a hundred yards opposite, Mr. Weatherill said playfully, "You must admit, however, that there is one avenue open to penniless young ladies which is rarely, if ever, available to penniless young men."

"What one is that, sir?"

"The one your younger sister chose, whom you left behind in Twyford," he replied. "The avenue of marrying a not -so-penniless gentleman." Weatherill grinned at her, imagining this reminder of one sister provided for might please Miss Barstow, but instead of appearing gratified, confusion overtook her.

"Oh—indeed. Yes. I suppose so. Ha ha! Marriage. Yes. How right you are," Adela babbled, retreating a few steps into a patch of asters and then springing out of them as if they were molten lava. Mr. Weatherill's brows rose in amazement at her odd conduct, but fortunately Lord Dere and his two dangling matrons had reached the place where the path met the terrace steps, and Adela could leap to take Mrs. Barstow's arm. The children ran to join them, shouting of their discoveries, Frances trailing behind at a more dignified pace, while Sarah appeared at the French doors with Bash in her arms, the hubbub putting a decided end to any further tête-à-tête.