Chapter Two
A Husband's a Plaster which cures all the Ailments of young Women.
Maria did not go home to Oxfordshire that day, nor for several days after. She and her mother and Mrs. Dere remained in London, as far removed from Fleet Street’s Bolt in Tun as it was possible to go, physically and metaphorically.
Now they found themselves at the Saint James Royal Hotel in Pall Mall, and the Barstows shrank to think what Lord Dere must have paid to install them there.
This, after having already insisted on treating them to this town visit!
Mrs. Barstow had protested, of course, murmuring, “Cousin, such luxury will hardly be necessary, when we must largely keep to the room.”
But it was Mrs. Dere who answered. Mrs. Dere who ordinarily disapproved of the baron squandering money upon his penniless dependents. “It must be, Camilla. Even London is almost too hot to hold us, and therefore we must retreat where Maria will be unknown.”
“In that part of town you might walk in the Park at dusk,” Lord Dere added kindly. “Fresh air, you know. If our Maria is to be a bride, she must have color in her cheeks.”
“But must I be a bride?” she asked for the dozenth time. “It was a ridiculous accident, sir, and even if all London knows about it, I might hide in Iffley like Jane did for a few years until people have something new to think about.”
The baron looked uneasy, and Mrs. Dere drew a long-suffering breath, so it was her mother who answered this time.
“My dearest, our Jane returned to us separated from Mr. Merritt and soon widowed. Had she come back shortly after her elopement, and before she and Mr. Merritt were married, we would have had to find another place for her to live. Apart from us.”
“Oh.”
“Unless we discover Mr. Ellsworth’s character is so very bad that your situation would be made worse by marrying him,” Mrs. Barstow went on gently, “I’m afraid it must be.”
Maria let the subject drop again, increasingly troubled not by her fate but by her own response to it. For, as the hours and then days passed, she was shocked to find her dismay and embarrassment continued to abate, displaced and replaced by that inexplicable, unconfessable gladness!
She was glad?
The first day in the hotel Mrs. Barstow and Mrs. Dere spent writing letters—so many letters!
Mrs. Barstow wrote to her married daughters and Mrs. Dere to her extensive Oxford connections.
“The baron will confer with Warden Gauntlett and the bishop and those—Ellsworth relations, but I have cast my own net,” the latter said grimly.
“And if there prove any hint of roguery in this Benjamin Ellsworth, we will know it at once.”
“I don’t think he can be a rogue,” said Maria stoutly.
“He didn’t try to jump out the inn window and escape; nor did he refuse to talk to the baron.
” With Mrs. Dere at the escritoire and Mrs. Barstow at the table, Maria had dragged the remaining chair to the window, where she overlooked Pall Mall through the narrow gap in the curtains Mrs. Dere allowed her.
She could feel Mrs. Dere’s disapprobation, but what else was new?
Even before this calamity, Maria had been too long used to it to mind it as she ought.
It was her third older sister Frances who had been Mrs. Dere’s favorite, until even Frances alienated her by marrying Mr. Adam Hearne.
In that light, what was Maria’s new disgrace but one more black mark (albeit a very black one) in the veritable chiaroscuro of their family connection?
Folding her latest letter with firm, decisive motions, Mrs. Dere said, “If you feel that way because of the plaster story, I will confine myself to saying you are more credulous than I imagined.”
Indeed. Her family had not received the “plaster story” so well as Maria hoped, and she turned back to the window now with a stifled sigh.
In fairness, the anecdote was not much upon which to build one’s future, and had Mr. Ellsworth not turned up so unexpectedly in her bed and her life, Maria herself might have considered it no more than a charming example of Peculiar People One Meets in Oxford.
The morning of the Plaster Story, she had been visiting her oldest sister Adela in Oxford and had taken her young nephews Gerry and Ranulph out for a walk because Della’s hands were full with the baby.
“Feel his gums, Maria—he has a tooth coming. Is that why Bumble Babykins is so cross?” (This last was addressed to her infant Gordon, but in the Weatherill house and adjoining Keele’s School, all and sundry knew him as Bumble, Babykins, Bumble Babykins, or even Bonkers.)
“Shall we go as far as the Physic Garden?” Maria asked the boys, when they emerged into Cornmarket Street.
It would be ambitious—over a mile to go, there and back, not counting what walking they did in the garden itself—but it would wear the boys out, which was always helpful.
Moreover, it would give her a good length of time to think about George Denver.
A longtime family friend and former Iffleyite, George had called at Keele’s to tell Della and Maria of his new appointment to the curacy of St. Andrew’s in Headington, and while they rejoiced with him, the celebration came at a cost. Namely, George blindly sat upon Della’s embroidery hoop and cracked it, and, when he rose to take his leave, he tripped over one foot of Bumble Babykins’ (fortunately unoccupied) cradle, knocking it into the wall.
Adela only sighed and rolled her eyes and congratulated George again, but when he had gone and she and Maria were alone, she chuckled. “Whatever will become of poor George? He had better marry the sturdiest of wives and furnish his parsonage with unbreakable goods.”
“Do you think George will marry now?” asked Maria.
“Maybe not now, but in good time. He has a little money, I believe, and his curacy pays a respectable sum, and he doesn’t seem to have any expensive habits.” Della shot her youngest sister a measuring look. “What would you think of him, if he came courting you?”
Instead of pretending surprise or disdain, Maria considered. “I like him very much. I always have. But I would have to wear very thick shoes the rest of my life.”
Della laughed, as Maria intended, and they left the matter there, but Maria had not forgotten.
Yes, a good long walk was just what was needed, so she might ponder the question further.
Because she thought she would very much like to be courted and to get married, now that she was twenty—nearly one and twenty!
How could she feel otherwise, when she saw how happy her sisters were with their husbands?
It was true that George Denver was not as handsome as Maria’s brothers-in-law, but she liked his looks all the same, and if he was dreadfully clumsy he was also kind and agreeable. Everybody liked George.
Including Maria.
Would it be enough to marry on, if he were to ask?
This was as far as she got before she and her nephews reached the Mitre Hotel, stopping under its gilded sign to watch the departure of the London coach.
So absorbed were the boys by the loadings and unloadings, they failed to notice a young man lurching around the corner of Turl Street, a rag to his face.
“Look out!” cried Maria, jerking Ranulph from the man’s path before the child could be knocked down.
“He’s sweating rocks and pebbles!” piped Gerry, pointing.
“Hush, Gerry!” Maria chided, turning pink.
But when the man lowered the rag, she saw it was true.
The loosened folds of his neckcloth were flecked with “rocks and pebbles,” and more of them adhered to his bare neck.
And whether it was his discomfiture or the friction caused by scrubbing at the mysterious scree, his face was shining and boiled-lobster crimson, perspiration running from his forehead.
“Excuse me, madam,” he muttered. “Didn’t mean to—bowl down the lad.”
“Are you quite well, sir?” she asked, thinking he looked like someone suffering an apoplectic fit after being rolled in gravel.
He gave his face another scrub, sending more bits rattling to the pavement. “Certainly. Fit as a fiddle.”
“But—you are—raining white crumbs.” Never mind his complexion.
Little Ranulph’s ears perked up at this, and, licking a finger, he bent to capture a chunk for tasting purposes, only to have the young man roar, “Don’t! It’s plaster!” Terrified, the four-year-old burst into tears, burying his face in Maria’s skirts.
“You great bully!” piped six-year-old Gerry, stamping upon the young man’s boot.
“Oh, dear! Oh, dear,” moaned Maria, simultaneously trying to comfort Ranulph, tug Gerry away, and look her apologies at the young man for her nephew’s attack.
“Hush, Ranny, and stop that at once, Gerry. You must beg this gentleman’s pardon!
Sir, please forgive him—he can be protective of his brother. ”
If the young man was vexed, it was impossible to tell, he being already so red, but to her relief he grinned at Gerry. “Good for you. If you’re anything like I was with my younger brother, you spend half your time sticking up for him and the other half beating him down.”
Warily, Gerry resisted this attempt at comradeship, again lifting an accusatory finger (which Maria swatted down) and repeating, “You’re sweating rocks and pebbles.”
“As I informed your brother in that frightening manner, it is plaster,” explained the young man, swabbing his face once more. “Bits of plaster. Until a few minutes ago, I was partially encased in it and had to be broken out in a great hurry.”
“Are you a statue come to life?” asked Gerry, a question so amazing that Ranulph released Maria’s skirts and ceased to cry, that he might hear the answer.