Chapter Twenty-Eight
Blow, blow, thou winter wind,
Thou art not so unkind
As man's ingratitude.
“I declare, Frances, I cannot believe what I am hearing.”
“Oh, Mrs. Dere, it is all the truth.”
The two of them sat in the morning room of Perryfield, where Frances had been shortly summoned, following her return from the Egertons’.
In times past she would have sat with her feet comfortably on the fender, reading aloud to her benefactress or stitching at some pretty work, but on this day Frances perched dreadfully upright upon a Chinese Chippendale chair while her interlocutor stood with her back to the window, blocking much of the feeble winter sunlight and casting a deep shadow.
Faint music carried to them from the drawing room, where Maria practiced at the pianoforte, having walked over with her sister.
“I thought you would be glad to hear that Mr. Hearne is made heir to his father’s estate,” Frances ventured.
“For the time being he is made heir,” returned Mrs. Dear portentously.
“There is no entail, no law to prevent the senior Mr. Hearne from altering his will again and leaving everything to the butcher boy if he pleases. And, if the younger Mr. Hearne does succeed in inheriting, he doubtless would have to pay the widow’s jointure for an untold number of years.
But all this is by the by, Frances, and not my chief objection. ”
Frances held herself erect. “Is it his integrity you continue to doubt, madam?”
Mrs. Dere made a face as one swallowing a bitter pill. “Enough has been said on that matter, to no effect. Suffice to say, you have no doubts, and that must be where we leave it until time vindicates one or the other of us.”
Hardly a concession, much less an apology, but Frances had no more desire to revisit the subject than her companion, and she let it lie.
“No, that was not my meaning in this particular instance,” Mrs. Dere reiterated. “It is what Mr. Hearne has chosen for his profession, with your approval!”
Frances had prepared herself for this, knowing that Mrs. Dere, her view unclouded by love, would not see things in the same light. Very well. She was ready.
“Would you give up your place in the world, Frances, your rank?” demanded Mrs. Dere. “All to become a—a—a Mrs. Lamb?”
“I would not be a postmistress, madam,” Frances insisted, “nor an innkeeper or innkeeper’s wife.”
“What difference is there? Setting all other things aside, including his reprehensible conduct this past summer, you tell me he would like to work on the stage?”
“Not work on the stage!” she pleaded. “He does not wish to act himself. He wishes to purchase it. Purchase the theatre in Abingdon and manage it. It is true that he liked being an acting manager when he did such things at Oxford and here in Iffley—”
“Mr. Midgecomb was the acting manager in Iffley!”
“Mr. Midgecomb pretended to be, but Adam was in truth managing all. He cast the roles and told Mr. Midgecomb what to do and what to have us do—”
Mrs. Dere made a sharp cutting motion in the air.
“These are quibbles. Cavils, Frances. At bottom, whether he owns or manages this Abingdon theatre, he will be consorting with actors and jugglers and low sorts such as one might encounter at a fair. And heaven knows those actresses are no better than they should be! Would you want to put your faith in—your renewed faith—in a man who must engage with actresses to get his bread?”
“But Adam says the Abingdon theatre is a very genteel little playhouse, and not at all disreputable. He says because the Oxonians are not allowed to have an established theatre, they always attend plays in the towns roundabout, and Abingdon has the best reputation for elegance and orderliness. He even thought he might produce a play or two himself, as he did in Oxford, using his fellow students.”
Mrs. Dere was shaking her head, however, and Frances could see it was no use.
“This is not how I thought it would end, Frances.”
“Madam, has it ended?”
“Of course it has. When a girl marries, it is a sort of ending because she has fixed her fate, for better or worse. Oh, you might be widowed, as I have been, but otherwise your life is no longer your own. Look at your sister Jane’s first marriage and the dance that husband led her!”
“Mr. Hearne is nothing like Roger Merritt,” Frances declared, indignant that Mrs. Dere would speak of them in the same breath. “And for him to own a playhouse cannot at all compare with the distresses Mr. Merritt caused Jane.”
“Mm. I see you are determined, Frances. Your mind made up. Therefore I will not waste words. I will only say that I never foresaw this for you. You have always been so agreeable, so willing to be guided by your elders. Even when we disagreed earlier in the summer about Mr. Hearne, as he originally presented himself to us, I always felt you were weighing your decisions with care and respecting my opinion.”
“I have always—”
“Let me finish, please. After so many years, for you to make this decision not only without my blessing but in the face of my avowed disapproval, stings sadly of ingratitude.”
If Frances had not been so thoroughly happy, she might have cried at this charge. Being a good girl, she did indeed feel a twinge, but no more than that. Because how could anything, anything at all, dampen her spirits, when Adam Hearne loved her and had chosen her to be his wife?
Instead she rose from the hard little carved chair and glided over to her longtime friend and benefactress. Taking the stiff woman between her young and pliant arms, she pressed her cheek to Mrs. Dere’s shoulder.
“I know you feel this way, good Mrs. Dere, and I hope my Adam will eventually win your esteem by proving a far better, worthier husband to me than you fear. And may you come to believe me, as well, when I say I have always and will ever remember your countless kindnesses to me with a heart full of thankfulness.”
One month onward, when both Mr. Langworthy’s visit and Lord Nelson’s funeral were concluded, the rector Mr. Terry joined Mr. Adam Hearne and Miss Frances Barstow in holy matrimony before their family and friends at the Church of St. Mary the Virgin, Iffley.
Despite all, in the weeks leading up to the ceremony, Mrs. Dere never made a peep when Mr. Terry read the banns, though much was said behind the scenes, mostly to the poor baron who could not escape it.
She would have found more sympathetic ears in the provost’s apartments at Oriel, had she condescended to consult them, for the Eveleighs were as offended by the match as if Mr. Hearne had broken a promise to their own Jane.
“For all her friendliness, Mama, I suspected she had her eye on him,” Jane complained. “I will never write to her again.”
“I guessed it too, my dear,” Mrs. Eveleigh replied.
“And to think how we have cast our pearls before—well—Christian charity prevents me saying all I feel. But if Mr. Hearne has let himself be caught by such as her, perhaps he truly is as simple as he pretended! Come, come, my pet. I wager you might still have Mr. Midgecomb, if you liked, judging from the sad way he looked at you when we passed him in the High Street.”
“Pooh,” said Jane.
Knowing (as everyone did) Mrs. Dere’s feelings on the match, Mrs. Barstow refused her cool offer to host the wedding breakfast, instead providing at the cottage a meal of eggs, bread and butter, chocolate, and wine for the intimate gathering.
Perryfield supplied the cold meat and iced wedding cake, however, and Lord Dere insisted upon the Hearnes using his private coach for their wedding journey.
“What luxury,” laughed Adam when he climbed in after her. “The baron’s coat of arms on the door, Wilton carpets, mahogany blinds…I’ve married a rich girl after all.”
“I do hope Mrs. Dere forgives us soon,” Frances sighed as she settled onto the Morocco leather seat, her husband’s arm about her. “My only dowry was my harmonious family, after all.”
“True, but if the good woman cannot be included in the total—yet—at least you presented me with the Weatherills and Mrs. Langworthy’s husband to compensate.”
“Yes, and didn’t you love Della and Gerard and their little boy? And wasn’t Sarah twice as charming when Horace was here, because she was so happy? I hope therefore you are still contented with your bargain.”
“Mm. Considering the very best part of the whole transaction,” he murmured, pulling her onto his lap as the coach set off up Mill Lane, “I’d be a hard man to please if I wasn’t. Allow me to congratulate you, Mrs. Hearne.”
“Adam! Adam, at least shut the curtain!” Frances cried, laughing and blushing. “We are passing the Tree Inn, and there is Mrs. Lamb, looking with all her eyes.”
She could feel his chuckle against her neck as his lips paid homage there.
“Then let her look.”
The End