Chapter 6

You are the only creature that I have made my confidante.

—Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, Letter of 5 September (1709)

"Mama," said Frances at breakfast a few days later, "Do you suppose Jane is married by now?"

Adela tried to kick her younger sister beneath the table but connected with poor Poppet instead, who had been lurking in hopes of falling tidbits. With a dramatic yelp, the lapdog was tossed against the nearby Outlaw and punished accordingly by the kitten with hisses and scratches. Maria and Gordon jumped up to separate the combatants, and peace was not restored for some minutes.

"Goodness!" said Mrs. Barstow, a hand to her brow, "I do hope those two become friends." But Adela saw the tears standing in her mother's eyes and knew Frances' question had distressed her.

Therefore, when it came time to walk with Gordon to Perryfield for his first lessons, Adela said, "Come along, Frances. It's a lovely day out."

"Pooh!" her sister replied. "I wanted to weave straw for a new bonnet. Take Sarah or Maria."

Before either of the latter could agree or refuse, Adela raised a warning brow which Frances knew from experience meant she had no choice in the matter. With a groan, she placed her basket of straw on a high shelf out of Outlaw's reach and stalked after Adela and the eager Gordon.

"I hope we don't see Mrs. Markham Dere," she complained as their brother dashed ahead to swing and jump from the branches of the great elm. "Why must we call on her or she call on us every single day? Already there is nothing new to say, and she looks at us like we aren't half good enough for her."

"Well, if that is how you feel, Frances, I am thankful you held your tongue when we have been with her."

"Pooh. I only feel how everyone else feels, secretly. And I'm fifteen—of course I can hold my tongue!"

Adela threw her a skeptical glance. "Indeed? Then I wish you wouldn't mention Jane to Mama."

"Why shouldn't I mention my own sister to Mama?"

"Because, you ninny, Mama is beside herself over Jane, and reminding her only pains her."

"If that is so, I warrant Mama thinks of Jane without my reminding her," retorted Frances. But then her nose wrinkled thoughtfully. "Poor Mama. Does this mean you don't think Jane is married yet, then, Della? I daresay she and Mr. Merritt could almost have walked to Gretna Green by now."

Adela heaved a sigh, debating inwardly whether Frances' vaunted fifteen was or was not old enough to understand the truth. But Frances guessed the trouble without being told because her eyes grew wide, and she flapped her hands in the air. "Della, you think something has gone wrong. You think—but—but you can't think Roger Merritt won't marry her after all!"

That being precisely what the elder Barstows did fear, Adela had no reply.

"Oh!" gasped Frances. "Oh, goodness! What will become of her, if he doesn't marry her? Our Jane will be a fallen woman ! In that case, she had better leave him, wherever they are. Leave him. Run away and come to us here. Only—what would we tell everyone became of Mr. Merritt? Could we say that he is dead, like Sebastian and Papa? We should not have told the Deres his name. Do you think they will blame us?"

"Hush, Frances!" Adela urged, as her sister's voice rose in excitement. "Yes, of course they will blame us. Everyone will blame us. I wish the Deres did not know his name either because Mrs. Markham Dere will blame us the most of all, and she might even persuade Lord Dere that Gordy is not a fit companion for her son Peter."

"Not fit?" squeaked Frances. "You really think so, Della?"

"It's possible. It's all possible."

"That would be very awkward, since we live so near. And who would teach Gordy, then? You don't know any Latin or Greek. Perhaps we could ask Mr. Weatherill to teach him apart from Peter Dere."

"Don't be ridiculous," returned Adela. "We could not stay here, don't you see? Mrs. Dere would convince Lord Dere to send us away."

"But—but where would we go? To join Jane and Roger?"

Adela rolled her eyes. "In a word: no. We could not join Jane and Roger, if we even knew where they were. I have no idea what we would do or what would become of us if we were cast out." Unwillingly she recalled Mr. Weatherill's suggestion when they walked in the Perryfield gardens. "I would likely have to—to leave and become a governess. And Mama would have to find other lodgings for the rest of you. Smaller ones. Cheaper. Though I don't know how that could be done when Lord Dere lets Iffley Cottage to us for a pittance. She would probably have to take in a lodger as well. Shhhh! Don't shriek so, Frances! This is why you must talk of the matter to nobody but me. Do you understand? I don't want any of this to happen to us either, so I am—making a plan."

"You do have a plan, then? What sort of plan, Adela? Tell me, and I won't tell a soul," her sister begged. Having always been the middle child, neither included with the two eldest sisters nor willing to be counted with her younger siblings, Frances leapt at this chance to be Adela's chief stay. "Tell me your plan, and I will do all I can to forward it. I will . You may depend upon me."

How could Adela resist this plea? She, who had been laden with cares for months, from the time they first learned of Sebastian's death, after which one blow followed another. She and Sarah and Jane used to share confidences, but then Sarah had her own grief to bear, and Jane was distracted by the charms of Roger Merritt. And when Jane forsook them…

Clearly neither Mrs. Barstow nor Sarah could be confided in now—they would each be horrified by her decision to pursue Lord Dere and would try to prevent her, while having no better solution to offer. Poor Jane was gone heaven-knew-where, so that left Frances. Frances, who might be young and often still childish, but whose sincerity Adela did not doubt.

Frances it must be.

She took her sister's arm and pressed it. "Very well," she began, "I tell you in complete confidence that I think Lord Dere must be won to our side. We must gain greater influence over him than Mrs. Dere, so that if the truth becomes known, we will still be secure."

"Yes, yes," agreed Frances. "That makes sense. Do you mean we must discredit Mrs. Dere?"

Adela started. "What? No, nothing like that. I don't mean to make an enemy of her, if it can be helped. In fact, if we could manage to win over both Deres, why, we would be unassailable!"

"Oh." Frances sagged with disappointment. She would have liked to vex the woman a little. "Yes, I see. What then, Della?"

Taking a deep breath, Adela tightened her grip on her sister's arm. "Don't scream or make a noise, Frances, but I am thinking it would be best if I married Lord Dere. That is, if I can persuade him to offer for me."

Thank heavens she had the foresight to warn Frances because the girl's mouth fell open to its widest, and she actually halted to stand stock-still in the path.

"No screaming!" hissed Adela, tugging on her. "And come along, or Gordy will be late."

Like an automaton with a broken mechanism, Frances jolted into motion again, but it was some minutes before she could speak. Some minutes in which a series of emotions washed over Adela—embarrassment, shame, despair, resentment.

Then— "But why can't it be Mama who marries him?" asked Frances.

Adela felt a little of the tightness in her shoulders ease. Then her sister was not going to denounce her as unmaidenly? Could it be that Frances understood ?

With the beginnings of a wavering smile she answered, "Darling, you know how Mama adored Papa. I do not suppose she will marry again, and even to broach the possibility with her now would outrage her."

"Yes, I see." Frances frowned meditatively. "I don't suppose we might persuade Sarah to do it, then? Little Bash needs a father."

"And our Gordon doesn't?" countered Adela, nodding her chin at their brother, who was balancing atop the stile before he leaped down. "Besides, how would throwing Sarah at him be any better? She already shares Sebastian's pension with the lot of us—we could not ask her to do more, even if she were not so recently widowed herself."

"Not to mention the contrast between Sebastian and Lord Dere. One so young and virile, and the other—the other—so—that is—"

"Indeed," said Adela, with a twist of her mouth.

"Oh, Della!" wailed Frances. " Can you do it? He is so old! Even though you haven't been married before and are not in love with somebody else." Another round of hushing her, followed by a squeeze to her arm, persuaded the girl to choke these sentiments down, but she made whimpering noises under her breath as they climbed over the stile.

"He is kind," Adela declared, her own voice unsteady now. "And I don't even know if I can do it—accomplish it, I mean. Make him offer for me. I'm sure other ladies have tried. He is rich, you know."

"And a peer, if one likes that sort of thing."

"Yes."

Frances smothered another whimper, but then she tried to get hold of herself. Throwing back her head to gaze at the approaching stone wall of Perryfield, she said, "All right, Della. If it must be you, it must. But—if you don't succeed— I— I will try my hand at him next."

Adela would have laughed at Frances' air of martyrdom if she weren't closer to crying. "Dear, dear Frances," she murmured, pressing a cheek to her sister's shoulder. "It will not come to that. If I fail, we will think of some other course. But perhaps I will not fail. I will have one advantage over anyone else who has tried her hand—I will be a great deal in Lord Dere's company, if I can manage it."

Relief washed over Frances' face to find her self-immolation refused, but she straightened and favored Adela with a stern look. "You mean to say, if we can manage it. Because tell me what I must do to help."

Seeing Gordon doubling back to join them, that he might not arrive at the house alone, Adela said quickly, "Only this for now: if you can be as charming as possible to Mrs. Dere. Talk to her. Listen to her. Distract her, so that she will be slower to notice or guess what I'm up to. Every minute I can spend studying Lord Dere and trying to commend myself to him, the better."

There was only time for Frances to give a solemn nod before Gordon rejoined them, disheveled, perspiring and full of chatter, and then the sisters must leave off their private scheming to put him to rights. But it was enough. Adela found her determination renewed and her thoughts buzzing and whirling.

I must work to discover his likes and dislikes. How can he have remained a bachelor for so long? If I cannot charm him, could he possibly be brought to adopt Gordon? Not as his heir, to be sure, but as a sort of surrogate second grandson?

Adela scrutinized her brother, trying to see him as a stranger would. But that was impossible. He was their Gordy—sunny, lively, winning. All of which might work against him, if Mrs. Dere or her son Peter chose to be jealous. She suppressed a sigh. Gordon might be another iron in the fire, but he equally might not. It all remained to be seen.

Having steeled herself for the first assault on Lord Dere's heart, Adela marched up to the great house ahead of her younger siblings, only to have the door swing open before she reached it. And instead of the footman Wood, the Barstows were presented with the tutor Mr. Weatherill.

"Oop!" he exclaimed as Adela stumbled in surprise, his hand shooting out to prevent her knocking her head against the door jamb, with the result that his fingers were crushed between those two articles.

"Mother of pearl!" uttered Mr. Weatherill before he could help it.

Gordon guffawed at this outburst, but Frances in her new role as Adela's right-hand man gave him a vicious pinch which silenced him. Manners prevailed thereafter, however, with both Adela and Weatherill pretending nothing had happened as they made their bows to each other. Though she kept the brim of her bonnet lowered, Adela feared Mr. Weatherill had seen her blush. Gracious—he would either think her hopelessly clumsy or that his appearance discomposed her. But surely the blood rushed to her cheeks out of embarrassment, and not because the unexpected sight of him had any effect on her.

Surely.

For, if she had Frances as an ally now, did she not also count Mr. Weatherill as one, after their last conversation? He should not then cause her any discomfiture. But he did, for whatever reason.

Mumbling a greeting, Adela wished she had warned Frances about the tutor. No, no—why should a warning be necessary? It was the tutor himself who had jokingly suggested Adela find a wealthy husband. But would he think it so amusing, if she did what he proposed and entrapped their mutual benefactor?

"I hope the walk from Iffley Cottage was pleasant," he said while these thoughts chased each other through her head.

"Very. What—er—brings you outside, sir?"

To her surprise, he straightened abruptly, swallowing and looking so conscious that she forgot her own unease. "Goodness!" she almost laughed. "How guilty you look. Have you murdered somebody and just returned from hiding the body?"

"I was—posting a letter at the Tree Inn," he answered reluctantly. "And having received one in return, I chose to read it before I entered the house."

Why, the man was as crimson as Adela had been a moment ago, and she felt her curiosity piqued, rather than satisfied. "Doesn't Wood collect the Perryfield letters?" she asked.

"He does. But—a walk is a pleasant thing."

A walk, and a correspondent he omitted to name.

Here they were again, on the shadowy edge of Mr. Weatherill's history, where all were discouraged from further encroachment. Did he write to a family member in London? Adela wondered. Someone from the charity school? Or a sweetheart?

As they entered the house, she considered ignoring his no-trespass signals, but before she could decide to forge ahead, there was Lord Dere, crossing the hall with a folded newspaper beneath his arm.

His appearance drove everything else from Adela's mind, and judging from the alarmed glance Frances threw her, she was not alone in her concern. Taking care to move sedately, Adela dropped a careful curtsey, struck by the contrast between the baron's silver, aging dignity and what Frances had called Mr. Weatherill's "youth and virility." Though Mr. Weatherill wore again his seedy, ill-fitting coat and rusty trousers, they somehow detracted less and less from the essential fineness of his form, in the same way a bright summer sun would eventually burn through obscuring clouds.

"Good morning, Miss Barstow, Miss Frances, Master Gordon," Lord Dere greeted them in his mild way. (Did his voice sound reedier than she remembered?)

With a great effort, she forced a smile to her lips and blinked at him in what she prayed was a beguiling manner, but Lord Dere didn't seem to notice. He turned instead to Gordon.

"Eager for your first lessons, my boy?"

"Yes, sir."

"Lead on then, young man. Unless you don't remember the way, and then Weatherill must do the honors."

"I know where it is!" declared Gordon. "It was only up the big stairs and then along the first floor to the stairs at the far end, and then there it was on the left at the top."

The boy sprang away, Lord Dere chuckling and murmuring, "Excellent," as he indicated for the others to follow.

"Perryfield is hardly labyrinthine ," Frances muttered, disgusted by her little brother's boasting.

The baron heard her. "What a big word for such a young lady. Who has been in charge of your education, if I might ask?"

"My Papa was, and Papa's books," Frances answered. "He called me his—his little autodidact—" she broke off suddenly, a hand fluttering to her lips, and Adela knew why. Grief was like that—always in ambush. It was only that the Barstows had been so harried from pillar to post that they eluded its grasp so long. Reaching for Frances' restless hand, Adela clutched it and threaded her fingers through her sister's. In return, Frances bumped her shoulder against Adela's. Then the younger girl cleared her throat and resumed, "But now, with—Papa—and his library gone, I suppose Della is."

Lord Dere paused at the top of the grand staircase and just tapped Frances' elbow with his forefinger. "Miss Frances, I am certain Miss Barstow will prove an excellent instructor, but should you wish to feed your autodidact tendencies, you and your entire family have my permission to make full and free use of the Perryfield library. In fact, after we have deposited Gordon and Mr. Weatherill in the schoolroom, I will take you there for a detailed tour and to choose some books."

The sisters stole glances at each other before assuring him of their approval. Oh, yes! Books would be delightful, but even more so would be the opportunity to make inroads upon his affection.

"Sir," spoke up Mr. Weatherill, "I wonder if Peter and Gordon and I might join you for the detailed tour? I would encourage them in reading anything which might interest them, even if it is only the descriptions of illustrations."

Of course the baron agreed to this at once, and Adela pressed her lips together to hide her chagrin. But this was not all, for when they reached the second floor, Mrs. Markham Dere's voice carried to them out the open schoolroom door.

"—Shall be along presently, I daresay. Oh! There you are, Mr. Weatherill. And—my, my—and several Barstows, I see." The handsome lady stood by the window, arms crossed, and no sooner did she take in Adela's and Frances' presence than her gaze returned to the tutor. Evidently his worn apparel was not yet fading into the background for her, for she shut her eyes briefly and shuddered. And much as Adela would prefer not to have Mr. Weatherill around to witness her activities, nor did she want him to lose his position because of Mrs. Dere's displeasure. No gentleman would wish to appear as shabby as Mr. Weatherill if he could help it, which meant he could not help it.

"Good morning, Mrs. Dere," she hastened to say, therefore. "I hope you are well today."

"Very well, Miss Barstow. I enjoy excellent health. And your mother?"

"Also well. And we thank you for the jars of preserves and confits you sent to us."

"The peach is delicious!" cried Frances.

"Hmm." Mrs. Dere turned again to the tutor. "Well, here are the boys, so we will leave you in peace, Mr. Weatherill."

"Thank you, madam, but we have something of an expedition planned, to begin with."

Naturally, when the matter was explained Mrs. Dere joined their party and took it upon herself to lead them back down to the library. They had glimpsed it on their earlier tour, but now Lord Dere pointed out the system of classification his grandfather had used, and which his father and he had continued.

"Many of these books were gathered on their Grand Tours," he explained. "History, philosophy, art, plays, and so on. Weatherill, you will likely find this shelf helpful—sketches of ancient Greece and Rome. Travel here. Biography. Science. Religious works. Please, please—take them out and inspect them."

While the late Mr. Barstow amassed a respectable collection of three hundred volumes (all of which Adela had catalogued for the auction), the Dere collection numbered in the thousands, bound in tan or black or brown, the spines and covers embellished with gold lettering and leaf.

Adela waited for the others to scatter sufficiently about the room (Frances hovering a few feet from Mrs. Dere and pretending interest in the religious works) before wandering back to their host, her heart racing like a soldier's before a charge.

This was the moment, then.

Let the assault begin .