Chapter Four
You have my most ardent vows for an auspicious beginning.
Had Providence not assigned Mrs. Markham Dere the lofty role of Mistress of Perryfield and niece to Baron Dere, she would have shone as an investigator for the courts.
For over the course of two days, Mrs. Dere, by the power of her pen and by paying London visits with Mrs. Barstow trailing after, learned enough of Mr. Benjamin Ellsworth to paint quite a detailed picture.
Indeed, by the second evening, when the three ladies were eating the supper brought up to their room, Maria could contain her curiosity no longer.
She had vowed to herself that she would ask no questions, that she would wait till Doomsday, if need be, before she would beg Mrs. Dere to share what she was learning.
But two days of silence on the subject and the receipt of several letters made quick work of this resolution.
Though she would never say so, Mrs. Dere was pleased to be applied to and thus quick to reply.
“It turns out Mr. Ellsworth is not, to this point, the monster of depravity I feared,” she declared, tapping the stack of letters from Oxford.
“It was a ticklish matter to sound my friend Dorothy about him without ‘letting the cat out of the bag,’ so to speak. I said merely that we had encountered an author in town, and what did she know of the Ellsworths of Winchester and Letters to Ladies? Her husband the provost is well acquainted with Warden Gauntlett of New College, naturally, and Mr. Eveleigh reports that though Mr. Gauntlett had some trouble with the cousin some years ago, one Mr. Tyrone Ellsworth, once his pernicious influence was removed, Messieurs Benjamin and Austin Ellsworth conducted themselves quietly enough. Short of finding livings for both of them, however, the warden declares he ‘does not know how the college will ever get shot of them, for they’re poor as church mice.’”
“Poverty is no sin at least,” answered Mrs. Barstow with a lift of her chin. “And if it is his chief shortcoming, why, I would choose it before a dozen other possibilities for my daughters.”
“Mm. I do not doubt it.” (A quintessential Mrs.-Dere reply, if ever there was one.)
“Moreover, if it is Mr. Benjamin Ellsworth who takes charge of his cousin’s literary efforts, as they told us at Hartrow and Keith,” Mrs. Barstow persisted, “that is proof that he is a man of energy, no laggard waiting for better fortune to fall in his lap.”
“Mm,” said Mrs. Dere once more, but Maria counted it as a point for her mama.
Her complacency faded the next minute, however, when Mrs. Dere gave a slow, regretful shake of her head. “But for every piece of possible good news, there is always something weighing in the balance, is there not, Camilla? For I was disturbed by what we learned at Gray’s this afternoon.”
“At Gray’s?” echoed Maria.
“The jewelers in Sackville Street. You will remember Mr. Ellsworth inquired about having the stone of his mother’s ring re-set.”
“Yes, but—why is that a drawback?” she asked uneasily. “Perhaps he wanted to surprise her with it.”
Mrs. Dere’s perfect eyebrows arched. “That is not what he told the shopman.”
Maria’s mother sighed, her expression rueful. “We discovered the one who had dealt with Mr. Ellsworth,” she explained, “and he told us Mr. Ellsworth wanted to re-set the stone for a young lady, and that he hadn’t the funds yet, but he would like to estimate the cost for the future.”
“Oh.” It was Maria’s turn for the monosyllabic reply.
There was already a young lady in Mr. Benjamin Ellsworth’s life?
She did not know why she was surprised by this revelation, but she was.
Perhaps she had assumed his financial situation would prevent him forming any meaningful attachment, but this was clearly not the case.
Mrs. Barstow reached to lay a comforting hand on her forearm, and Maria recovered enough to say, “Ought he—need he marry me, then, if he already loves another? I wish he had said as much.”
“What good would it have done?” returned Mrs. Dere, frowning at the roast pork, which only she had the appetite to note was a trifle tough. “A young man cannot wake up in a young lady’s bed and say, ‘Oh, pardon me, but you must excuse me the consequences because I already care for another.’”
“But I don’t want to marry someone who likes somebody else!” Maria wailed. She knew she sounded childish, but her disappointment was sharp. “I want my husband to prefer me, no matter how our union came about.”
“Of course you do, sweeting,” her mother soothed. “But there is no saying how serious his attachment to this other person is. No one Mrs. Dere consulted nor anyone we spoke to could name names or say anything about her! Therefore, it is possible she might be no more than a fancy, an infatuation.”
“Still,” said Maria, “I don’t like it. I wish I could know more about her.” Raising bold eyes to Mrs. Dere she added, “I think I will ask Mr. Ellsworth about her when I see him again. If he says he—loves her—dearly—and she him, well—I think I had rather be ruined.”
The cutlery rattled when Mrs. Dere brought her hand down flat on the table.
“Maria. I will excuse such a selfish resolution because you are young, but I will remind you that your actions and your reputation do not belong to yourself alone. You have your family to think of. I hesitate to mention Mrs. Philip Egerton in these circumstances, but I do not see how it can be avoided. No—let me speak, Camilla. When your sister Jane eloped, Maria, it was at great cost to her family. First, it was felt necessary to keep the scandal hidden from those it most nearly concerned (I speak of the baron and myself), and then your sister Adela thought it necessary to—secure the baron’s affections as a further hedge against disaster!
Why, it was the greatest stroke of good fortune Mrs. Egerton’s first husband died when he did, but it nevertheless required the passage of years for her to redeem herself.
I still shudder to think what might have happened, had he lived on.
We might still, all of us, be sunk in disgrace by the connection.
And after Mrs. Egerton’s experience, do you really propose to plunge us in another such quagmire, regardless of our efforts to remedy this situation?
Efforts on the part of Lord Dere, your mother, and myself, from the moment you were discovered in bed with that person? ”
Maria was no spiritless creeper, but her youth, coupled with the awareness she had no high ground to stand upon, quite conquered her. Even the additional, feebler attempt she might have ventured died aborning when she saw her mother’s lowered gaze and the tear slipping down her cheek.
Ah. If even steady, faithful Mama thought she had better lie in the proverbial bed which had been made for her, then it must really be so. For while Maria had no compunctions about inconveniencing Mrs. Dere, she hated to oppose her mother or undermine the baron’s efforts.
“I beg your pardon, then,” she uttered at last, addressing the tablecloth more than their benefactress. “That was…impetuous of me. And I will certainly be guided by Mama.”
Still and all, however, as Mrs. Dere nodded graciously and the meal resumed, Maria made one more vow to herself and prayed she might keep this one.
He may love someone else. Now, at least. But if anything at all can be done about it, dear God, may he please, please, please one day come to love me.
Rather than return to the Bolt in Tun where, indeed, neither the Barstows nor the Deres might ever be able to set foot again, at the end of the week Mrs. Dere, Mrs. Barstow and Maria repaired to the Golden Cross Inn at the Charing Cross end of the Strand to take their places in the Gloucester-bound Royal Mail Coach.
The mail coach was more expensive than the stage, but Lord Dere insisted upon it for the relative privacy and even paid for four inside places, so they need not be troubled by any interlopers.
Mrs. Dere might click her tongue in disapproval at the cost, but she said no more than, “Leaving at night will be infinitely preferable, at any rate, and after your recent adventures, Maria, it is certainly better to spend no more nights at coaching inns. We should arrive at the Angel Inn in Oxford in the early morning, and the baron will have his coach there to meet us.”
“Will I go home to Iffley after all?” asked Maria hopefully. (She had been a very good, very quiet girl the last few days and thought, with the elasticity of youth, that she might now be granted a reprieve.)
“By no means, child! Harker and Ogle will take you first to the Egertons in St. Lawrence before returning your mother and me to Iffley. Your brother-in-law Mr. Egerton will marry you and Mr. Ellsworth as soon as a week from today. The baron writes that he has secured the license from Bishop Moss, but Mr. Ellsworth suggested a short delay so that he might remove to new lodgings outside the college.”
“Will I—see Mr. Ellsworth again, before we are married?” The idea of arriving at St. Lawrence church with Jane and Philip and being tossed at Mr. Ellsworth like a mailbag when the coach flew by was too horrible to contemplate.
Mrs. Dere only shrugged, but Maria’s mother murmured, “Surely…?” Which was not the same as “Why, you may depend upon it!” Not at all.
The Egertons received the Prodigal Daughter with subdued warmth, though Maria’s niece Pippa shrieked with joy and nephew John bounced on his chubby legs, but when the dampening Mrs. Dere was gone and the children put to bed, Jane took Maria aside, embracing her with looks so soft and pitying that Maria felt contrarily irritable.