Chapter 8

Believe it Sir, That clothes doe much upon the wit...and thence comes your proverbe, The Taylor makes the man .

—Ben Jonson, Staple of Newes, I.ii.111 (1631)

"Please let your arms hang naturally, sir," the tailor instructed Weatherill, as he stretched the tape from one shoulder to the other.

Gerard had not imagined his arms could hang un naturally, but the afternoon had been full of surprises. Not two hours earlier, he had dismissed Peter and Gordon, shutting the door after them so no sound would carry to him while he set the schoolroom to rights, straightening the books on the shelf and wiping clean the blackboard.

It was when he was at his desk, purporting to plan the next day's lesson but in truth mulling over the same thoughts which had occupied him the past fortnight, that a knock came, followed by Mrs. Markham Dere's entrance.

"Ah, Mr. Weatherill. If you have a minute, there is something I would discuss with you," she said.

A dart of uneasiness pierced him.

She had not to this point sought him in his classroom, and as he had chosen to take his meals in his sitting room, he had encountered her far less than might be expected for two occupants of the same house, however large that house might be. Lord Dere he saw more frequently, crossing his path in the library or the gardens, and the baron never failed to stop and speak courteously with him, asking how Gerard was liking Oxfordshire and Perryfield in particular, or inquiring after the boys' progress. But Mrs. Markham never appeared to find pleasure in meeting him, a pained expression fleeting across her features before she could master it.

This occasion was no exception, a line appearing between her brows, to be smoothed away with an effort. Was he about to be dismissed? Had she somehow—learned something about him?

Bracing himself, Weatherill stood, palms upraised to indicate his readiness to listen.

Pinning a smile upon her handsome face, Mrs. Dere folded her hands and took a deep breath. "Mr. Weatherill, I am delighted to say my Peter tells me he enjoys his lessons with you. As does little Gordon, I believe."

He bowed his head in acknowledgement. "Thank you. I rejoice to hear it. They are both intelligent lads."

The line appeared again, and he wished she would waste no more time with preliminaries.

Mrs. Dere must have been of the same mind because she took one more deep breath and forged ahead. "Yes. Well. Lord Dere, too, shares my satisfaction with your early efforts. To the point that—in fact—he would like you to…feel yourself more a part of the—the family." Another grimace came and went. Clearly, whatever Lord Dere's opinion on the matter, Mrs. Dere did not share it.

"I have discussed it with him," she went on, "and understand him to mean that he would welcome your presence at—certain meals and in the drawing room in the evenings. Of course I explained to him that you surely would like to have time to call your own, so that you were not always at your employer's beck." (The emphasis on employer was faint but discernible.) "I also observed that we are raising Peter to be the gentleman his rank in life demands."

Weatherill might have turned to stone, so still did he hold himself. Now for it , he thought. Now for it all. Aloud he said, "I see. I am at his lordship's disposal."

"Mm."

If he had been less on edge he might have realized Mrs. Dere was feeling her way and trying to read him in turn.

"The fact is," she resumed, "not to mince matters, but if you do indeed choose to join us regularly—even in, or, shall I say, especially in company—I feel you might make a—a better presentation of yourself. Your outward self, that is. I do not imply that you do not have the manners and carriage of a gentleman—far from it! If that were the case, we should have sent you packing at once! Heh heh. But Peter is an impressionable young creature and the baron's heir, so you will understand why I wish him to appear in, and be shaped by, the best company. Lord Dere is not as scrupulous in these details as one might wish, issuing invitations to Perryfield willy-nilly—but—never mind. In short, Mr. Weatherill, I wonder if you might benefit from an advance on your salary."

"An advance on my salary?" he repeated, almost laughing in relief at the unexpected direction of her words. This was not about the Fleet and Rioting Rob, then—it was about her thinking him an aesthetic blight?

"Yes," she hurried on. "There is a very acceptable sort of tailor in Iffley who might assist you with some—additions—to your wardrobe at no great expense. I daresay ten pounds would suffice to fit you out, prices here being considerably cheaper than in town. If you were to go this afternoon, you might have something new by Sunday, both for church and for the rector and his wife, whom Lord Dere has invited for supper."

As a household dependent there was only one choice to be made, which was how Weatherill came to be in the village, having his measurements taken.

"Two coats, black and dark blue. Two pairs of trousers, buff. Four shirts. Four neckcloths. Socks." The tailor made notes in his book. "I may have a few items as soon as Friday afternoon, if you care to be fitted then, sir, and I will send the bill to Perryfield as you request." Spinning the book around on the counter, he tapped the box in which he had calculated the total, and Weatherill was pleased to see he had kept to the allowance. He might even purchase a new pair of boots. And however a village tailor might fall short of his smarter brethren in London, the new clothes could only be an improvement on the items Gerard had worn for the past three years, faded and ragged and ill-fitting as they had become. When he lived in the environs of the Fleet his shabbiness passed unnoticed, but here in Oxfordshire even the tradesman and laborers were better dressed.

Emerging from the narrow shop into the street, against his will he glanced up and down the length of it.

No sign of her.

Whether by luck or by effort, he and Miss Barstow had avoided the sight of each other since that day in the Perryfield library. Certainly Gerard had taken pains to keep clear of her. He had gone away that day nettled, his only comfort the satisfaction of having nettled her in return. But when that waned, his annoyance contrarily lingered.

Because she did hope to charm Lord Dere, whether she admitted it or not! It was disgusting, a young lady of her age seeking to entrap someone so much older, for the sake of security. Disgusting and designing and despicable. It was not the gap in age alone which made it so, nor the gap in rank or fortune. Her pursuit, undertaken without love, would be reprehensible in any circumstances.

Or so he told himself at first.

But Weatherill was a just person at heart, and before many days had passed he had to concede that, disgusting and designing and despicable as Miss Barstow's scheme might be, neither was it unusual. Quite the opposite, in fact. Similar plans were formed and similar matches made every day. Added to this, it just might be she would not even have considered Lord Dere in that light, if Gerard himself had not jokingly reminded her of the possibility of salvation through marriage. But he had never imagined she would consider marriage to Lord Dere!

From there it was a short step to ask himself why it should matter whom Miss Barstow chose to marry or why. Really, whom anybod y chose to marry was none of his business, for he doubted he would ever have the means to do so himself. Perhaps if he waited until he was forty, after having saved every farthing, and if he chose a bride nearly as old, someone who by virtue of her age might present him with only five children, say, rather than fifteen.

No appearance of Miss Barstow disturbed his return to Perryfield this day, in any event, and he sought Mrs. Dere at her escritoire to make his report. The good lady nodded with approval, saying, "Excellent. Perhaps you might join us at dinner this Sunday, then, when Mr. and Mrs. Terry will be here? After which, when your wardrobe is complete, would you prefer to name regular days when we might expect you to dine, or would you rather only join us in company?"

Weatherill had considered the question, at first thinking he would only dine with the Deres in company, but if the company were lofty, would that not be awkward? Better to set a regular day as well, so that his presence would not be unusual. And that he might excuse himself from grander entertainments when he thought it fitting.

"Perhaps Wednesdays and in company on other occasions," he suggested.

"I will tell Lord Dere."

Peter Dere, for one, would likely be happy to see more of his tutor. Both he and Gordon had taken to tarrying in the schoolroom when lessons ended, only to have Weatherill shoo them out after a few minutes, lest Miss Barstow come in search of her brother. The fourth or fifth time they lingered, Weatherill said, "You mustn't keep your sister waiting, Gordon," only to have the boy reply, "Oh, but she doesn't fetch me anymore, Mr. Weatherill. She says I know the way now."

Weatherill stared. Had he been hiding on the second floor and avoiding Miss Barstow all this time for no purpose? "Does she still walk you over in the mornings?"

"Oh, yes, but that's because she is calling on Mrs. Dere."

Or calling on Lord Dere, more likely, Weatherill thought sourly, before repeating to himself, None of my business. Absolutely none of my business .

But whatever the progress of Miss Barstow's schemes, at least he need not witness her efforts in the afternoon and might have the freedom of the house again.

When the tailor delivered the first of his new wardrobe on the Saturday, Mrs. Dere told him by way of Wood the footman that the carriage for church would be called for at nine, and Weatherill "would be welcome to sit in the second Dere pew." His mouth twisted at the news—the Sunday before, he had attended the afternoon service with the servants and workingmen of the parish, who greeted him gruffly and uncomfortably, but now he was to be promoted to morning attendance with the "quality"?

Descending the stairs a few minutes ahead of the appointed time, he was reminded absurdly of the débutantes in novels, entering their first ballroom in full view of the critical public. For in the entrance hall stood Lord Dere, Mrs. Dere, Peter, and a few servants, all with faces upturned and eyes fixed on him.

The adults were too polite to remark, of course, though Mrs. Dere swelled with approval and gave one nod, but little Peter cried, "What have you done with your old patched coat?" He was silenced with a look, however, and the party proceeded to the waiting landau.

Set above the Thames, the old Norman church of St. Mary the Virgin with its beautifully ornamented fa?ade and central bell tower dominated the village, and as Harker unfolded the steps for them to descend, Lord Dere murmured, "At some point, Weatherill, you must allow me or the rector to show you the carvings around the great west door. Very fine."

For the moment, however, they joined the parishioners milling in the church yard, who parted to permit the baron passage. Among them stood the many Barstows, and Weatherill thought it must have sent a thrill to the very core of Miss Barstow when Lord Dere smiled upon them and beckoned to her mother with a "Please join us in our pews." Shooting a glance at the young lady, however, he did not catch any delighted cunning on her face, nor was she even looking at the baron. Instead, her gaze of unaffected surprise, brown eyes wide, was all for him!

Oh, Gerard realized, that was right. His new clothing. Plainly he had indeed looked bad, then, and the young ladies had all noted it, for Miss Barstow was not the only one of them staring. (Wonder threatened to dislocate the lower jaws of Miss Frances and Miss Maria, so far did they hang open.) Self-consciousness made him color, unwittingly adding to his newly emphasized charms, and he drew back to let the Barstows precede him. Miss Barstow tore her eyes away, lowering her head as she passed by, so that he was presented with the familiar crown and brim of her bonnet.

The congregation entered by the south door, overlooked by a carved figure astride a lion, to follow Lord Dere up the aisle. The Dere pews were directly before the pulpit, and Weatherill filed into the second of them, where he found himself beside Miss Frances and behind Miss Barstow.

Let it not be assumed by the young man's inattention to the service that the reverend Mr. Terry was deficient as a priest. On the contrary, Mr. Terry was a pleasant, not unhandsome rector of middle age with the gift of making pithy, interesting sermons, during which even the children did not kick their legs or fidget overmuch. But others in attendance did not have Miss Barstow seated immediately in front of them and were thus not distracted by a slender neck rising from sloping shoulders encased in blue cambric muslin. It was the first time he had seen her wearing a color, with only black ribbons threaded through inserts in the sleeves to indicate her mourning. A few tendrils of dark hair slipped from beneath her chip bonnet to curl lovingly about that graceful neck, tendrils he found himself tracing in his mind, and altogether the sight held an inexplicable magnetism which made it impossible for him to pay Mr. Terry's words the slightest attention.

The unheard sermon was followed by prayers. The peace. The Eucharist. The offertory. Someone's banns were read.

At last, when the blessing was given and the service ended, the congregation again filed out, greeting the rector at the door, to walk home or to stand about in the churchyard until carriages were brought, Mrs. Markham Dere by Lord Dere's side and Weatherill standing a decorous few feet to the side and rear, determined not to stare at Miss Barstow. Instead, after bowing to her mother and sister-in-law, he trained his gaze on Peter and Gordon, who along with Mr. Terry's youngest pupil had gone to dart in and out among the leaning tombstones.

"—New tutor at Perryfield—"

"—Fine figure of a man—"

"—Somewhere in London—"

The chatter was impossible to ignore, though he was obligated to pretend he neither heard it nor was aware of heads turned his way.

"They all want to be introduced to you, I expect," said Miss Frances, appearing at his shoulder. "We've already met most of them because they called at the cottage or at the rectory when we were there too."

Her guess was correct, for, as if on an unseen signal, the parishioners bowing to Lord Dere and Mrs. Dere were soon being led by them to address him. As might be expected in a village so near to Oxford before term had begun, there were several dons and fellows and assorted university affiliates, along with a few wives and daughters.

"Mr. Weatherill came highly recommended by Mr. William Keele, formerly of Exeter College," Mrs. Dere announced with a complacent smile. "Not only was he taught by him, but he also served as his assistant master at a school in London."

"Keele!" exclaimed one with a wagging, goatish wisp of beard. "One of the finest scholars of ancient languages Exeter ever produced. A schoolmaster, you say? So that's what became of him. He was one so inflamed by Norden's Travels in Egypt that he vowed to see the ruins himself."

"He did see them," Weatherill replied carefully, "long ago, penetrating as far as the Second Nile Cataract. And he has ever since been at work on an account of his findings." It was the truth, if only a partial picture. But it would serve no good purpose for anyone to learn how William Keele lost both his archaeological treasures and his welcome in Egypt after an international squabble with the French comte de Volney over the riches buried beneath the sand. Keele returned a broken man, only to be further broken by the accumulated debts which landed him in the Fleet. In all the years Weatherill had known him, the fading adventurer would spread his sketches of Medinet Habu and Karnak across a shaky deal table and mull over the great work he would one day produce, one which would silence his doubters and perhaps even buy his freedom. Indeed, part of Weatherill's work for the man had been to summarize and organize the hundreds of scraps and transcriptions, the drawings and notes.

To Weatherill's relief, as the Oxford set crowded about him that morning, they were too busy talking over each other, sharing reminiscences of Keele and opinions on Egyptian expeditions, as well as rehearsing a few related academic squabbles, to properly interrogate him.

"You must give Keele my regards," concluded Wisp of Beard, when the Dere carriage arrived and the flock began to disperse, "when next you write to him."

Weatherill bowed in vague acknowledgement but made no promises before he followed the Deres into the landau. Surely such men would let William Keele slip again from their minds, as they had let him slip for decades, and Mrs. Dere would have no further cause to bring him up again.

Indeed, Mrs. Dere had more pressing concerns as they drove away.

"Sir," she addressed the baron, "I did not realize you intended to ask the elder Barstows to dine, along with the Terrys."

"Yes. I suspected Mrs. Barstow would like to be hospitable to the rector and his wife, but with their limited resources and the fullness of Iffley Cottage, I thought this would be simpler. As it will just be the two Mrs. Barstows and Miss Barstow, I do not think it will incommode Cook much."

"Can't Gordy come too, Uncle?" asked Peter.

Lord Dere smiled at him. "He cannot, because you will not be here to host him. You see, Mrs. Barstow thought it would be a treat in turn for you to dine at Iffley Cottage. An exchange of sorts—the delightful younger Barstows in place of the strait-laced older folk. Unless you would prefer to be at table with the rector…?"

Peter gave a whoop in answer, his delight only increased when Lord Dere told him Harker would drive him and likely let him hold the ribbons for part of the way.

Mrs. Dere's faint frown remained, however, and though Weatherill was glad to know her displeasure was not directed at him on this occasion, it troubled him nonetheless when she said, "Sir, it is very kind of you to condescend to the Barstows, not only in letting the cottage to them and allowing Gordon to share in Mr. Weatherill's services, but do you not fear that…an excess of favor might…raise their hopes beyond what would be advisable?"

"How so, Mrs. Dere?"

Brushing an invisible speck from her dress, she smiled demurely. "I'm afraid there are some —and I do not say I know enough to include the Barstows among them—but indeed there are some who would seek to…profit from such a connection. It might become, ‘When we dine at Perryfield,' or ‘Our cousin Lord Dere says this and such,' or—or even expectations as to—to future emolument might grow! Sadly, sir, there are some who, as the proverb teaches, if given an inch will take an ell."

"Thank you, my dear," Lord Dere replied. "I will keep that in mind."

Weatherill ought to have felt thankful to Mrs. Dere as well, for certainly Miss Barstow intended to take an ell if she could manage it. But to his own amazement he was conscious of increasing vexation. Not only because the accusation was utterly unjust to the two Mrs. Barstows, but also because even Miss Barstow was a reluctant schemer. If she were not in such precarious circumstances, would she ever have considered trying to charm the baron?

He suppressed a sigh at his own weakness, his own eagerness to seek the best interpretation of matters. Perhaps all schemers were driven by precarious circumstances. A Miss Barstow might be explained, but she could hardly be defended.

So why should he wish he could?