Chapter Twenty-One
He's a most notable coward, an infinite and
endless liar, an hourly promise-breaker, the owner
of no one good quality.
Frances went to bed sad and woke up angry.
The reasons for sadness were difficult to explain to herself, and in the short term it was much easier to transmute them all to anger.
What right had these strangers to come among them, pretending to be who they were not? For Mrs. Dere was right: if Mr. Hearne was not the dunce he pretended to be, his imposture had been undertaken and sustained with the consent and support of his two friends.
It was an outrage! An affront to the Eveleighs’ hospitality and a violation of the welcome and trust the little community of Iffley had shown to them.
Had they done it for a lark? A little summer prank to be played on the credulous provincials?
Never mind that one of the credulous provincials was a baron!
Somehow the thought of them pranking Lord Dere made her even angrier.
Sweet Lord Dere with his collection of insects and his generous spirit? Shame to them!
And what had it gained them, beyond amusement at everyone else’s expense?
Had it not grown wearisome after a time, always to be slapping each other on the back, agreeing, “Lord, what fools these mortals be”?
Had they not been ashamed of themselves, whenever Mr. Hearne’s supposed impairment elicited sympathy?
Imagine if Miss Jarvis had pretended to her unfortunate strabismus, merely to make others like or pity her, or to snigger at them behind their backs!
But worse than all this, worse than these general offenses, Frances felt the personal ones.
Because what on earth had been in Mr. Hearne’s mind when he proposed to her?
Suppose she had accepted him? Accepted him not for what he lacked but for what he possessed: his good name, good looks, and good fortune?
Jane Eveleigh had been willing to take him, after all.
Yes, suppose she had accepted him. Would he then have scorned her for her willingness to make such a compromise?
And when, oh when, would he have thrown off his disguise to reveal his true self?
He could not possibly think a good marriage might be built upon such a foundation of deceit and disrespect.
What was it about her, Frances Barstow, which made her the chosen target of such cruelty?
It was a silent breakfast, each locked in his own thoughts, and only innocent Bash humming and chattering in his usual fashion, though even he asked, “What is it, Mama? Why is everyone so cross?”
They looked up when Irving brought the post, knowing he had fetched it from Mrs. Lamb, and it was an act of kindness to the others when Mrs. Barstow began apologetically, “Was there much—activity—at the Tree Inn this morning, Irving?”
“Oh, ay, there was,” he answered. “Maggs was there from Greenwood Hall, asking for the wagon to be sent for the gentlemen, to take ’em straight back to Oxford, bag and baggage.”
“So soon!” gasped Maria.
“—That set Mrs. Lamb a-squawking, and she wouldn’t rest till she had it all out of Maggs.
I don’t know what you saw when you were at the Hall last night, ma’am, but Maggs says they’re in a right taking about those three Oxford gents not being all they seemed.
That nice Mr. Hearne in particular, the one that was simple as a babe but friendly as one too.
Turns out he’s a sharp one! And no one would have guessed it, only the game was up when Mr. Hearne’s brother and mother came, unexpected like.
So the Hall folks were fit to burst and ordered ’em all gone as soon as it could be managed, and Maggs says they’re in a fair pother there, with the women crying and the master stamping about and the offenders hiding their heads.
Maggs says those lads tried apologies and explanations, but the Hall folk are having none of it, and one of ’em already up and ran off this morning. ”
“Which one?” croaked Frances.
“Ay, that’s what I asked,” Irving nodded, “and little Jimmy Cramthorpe pipes up, ‘It was the plain one, and he said he wanted to catch the London coach so he could be at Winchester by Tuesday for the King’s Plate,’ and then Maggs sniffs and says that that must be why he didn’t tip the servants—saving all his money for the betting post. Then Mrs. Lamb goes and says it’s all too bad, too bad, and how she really did want to see that Potamus and Thispy, but that’s likely gone by the wayside.
” He said this last with a questioning look, he and Reed having been among those invited to the rectory later that day for the scene.
But here Frances’ anger carried her. “She shall have her Pyramus and Thisbe,” she declared.
“It doesn’t matter if he—Mr. Hearne—has absconded.
We already decided that we would ask Mr. George Denver to take his place, Irving, so please tell Reed and Mrs. Lamb to come to the rectory just as we planned. ”
“Well, so I will, Miss Barstow, and glad to hear it,” he beamed. Then he gave another nod and departed, carrying away some of the empty trays.
“So it’s true,” whispered Maria. “All true. Mr. Hearne only pretended to be a numbskull, for whatever reason, and Mr. Midgecomb and Mr. Tilson knew it!”
“I don’t understand the need for the ruse,” sighed Mrs. Barstow, shaking her head. “Not at all. And I am sorry for it. I did like them all. Very much. And perhaps sweet, simple Mr. Hearne best of all. But now it seems—I do not even know who it was I thought I was liking!”
To have her mother hurt infuriated Frances further, but she said nothing, pressing her lips together, hard.
She knew if she spoke she would explode, so better to bottle it up until she was alone.
Then she might scream into her pillow and kick at the counterpane and draw a picture of Mr. Hearne and tear it into a thousand pieces.
“Still,” said Sarah, “I would have liked to hear the apologies and explanations they wanted to offer the Eveleighs, however inadequate.”
“Ditto,” put in Gordon.
“Ditto ditto!” exclaimed Bash, not understanding but still imitating the others’ frowns.
Frances volunteered to go early to the rectory to request George Denver’s assistance, taking a very long, discreet route, both to settle her nerves and to avoid the sight and conversation of others.
But eventually she arrived back at the churchyard, hot and unhappy and wishing she had cancelled the performance after all.
Well, it would be a true test of everyone’s acting ability, to pretend they were having fun.
“I daresay Mr. Hearne could do it marvelously,” she muttered, marching along the side of the church to the rectory door.
When Polly the maid admitted her, Frances found Mrs. Terry serenely at her needlework.
“Good afternoon, Miss Barstow. You’re early.”
“Yes. I came to ask—”
“If George might read Bottom’s part?” she interrupted with a smile. “Your Irving already stole over and told Polly and Winching as much, and Polly told me, and I told George.”
“And what did George say?”
“He hemmed and hawed in true Georgish fashion, but I brought him around in the end.” She gave a rueful chuckle. “The scene will not be as amusing with George, of course, but for an audience which has not seen the original, it will serve.”
“At least George Denver is an honest soul,” returned Frances, her brow darkening.
“Indeed. I would be hard pressed to name an honester,” agreed the rector’s wife amiably.
“But I think we can agree he is no actor. And thank heavens your brother Gordon is a sturdy fellow, for George, in his clumsiness, might accidentally knock a flimsier ‘Wall’ to the floor, burying poor Thisbe in the rubble.”
Frances attempted a smile, but it was faint.
“Come now,” said Mrs. Terry, patting the chair beside her. “You have had a disappointment. A sudden end to an enjoyable time. I am disappointed myself. I was thoroughly charmed by the blockheaded Mr. Hearne and don’t like the idea of him with a brain nearly so well.”
“Oh, Mrs. Terry.”
“Now, now, don’t look at me like that. I know it’s too soon to joke about it, but joking too soon has always been one of my chief flaws.
” She heaved a sigh. “It’s just that I thought all along his wooden head was his saving grace.
Without it every woman in Iffley might have fallen out over him, and we do prize our concord here. ”
What concord? Frances thought, remembering how she and Jane Eveleigh had been friends, until Jane told her to keep off from Mr. Hearne, and how that same request had vexed Mrs. Dere with Mrs. Eveleigh.
She said none of this aloud, but Mrs. Terry had been observing her and gave a regretful click of her tongue.
“Ah,” she said. “Then it happened anyway.”
“Yes,” admitted Frances. “I did like him—not to love him, I don’t mean—there his blockishness did stop me—but as a person.
As a friend. But now I feel…betrayed. We all thought we had to make allowances for him being simple, and then it turns out that, this whole time, he has been thinking us the fools! ”
“I don’t know about that.”
“You don’t?”
The rector’s wife continued her row of even stitches. “I don’t. Because his good nature struck me as basic. As genuine.”
But—but—was it from good nature that he made his impossible proposal to Frances?
If he was genuinely good-natured, he ought to have told his friends, “Enough. We have had our fun. These are good people. Let me spend the rest of the visit growing less stupid, day by day and hour by hour, until they forget they once thought me so.”