Chapter Twenty-Seven
We are ready to say, Home is homely, and our heart is there, though our bodies be away.
“Auntie,” said four-year-old Ranulph Weatherill from his post at the window of Iffley Cottage, where he had been tracing shapes in the moisture.
“Yes, Ranulph?” asked Sarah Langworthy. Flashing out a hand, she pried a wooden rod from Baby Gordon’s fist before he could suck on it.
“Emmy, sweeting,” she addressed her young daughter, “if you want to play at spillikins, you must keep these out of reach, or your baby cousin will try to eat them.”
“Auntie Maria,” insisted Ranulph with a bounce.
“I’m Auntie Sarah,” she corrected patiently. But before the misunderstanding could continue, the front door opened without benefit of a preliminary knock, and Ranulph leapt from the window seat to hurtle into the passage.
“Auntie Maria! Auntie Maria!”
It was indeed she. And though Ranulph threw himself about her, heedless of the damp and rather muddy cloak she was trying to remove, little Emma Langworthy hung back, only staring with all her eyes and waiting to approach this apparition until her mother gathered up Bumble Babykins and led the way.
“Maria!” cried her sister-in-law. “What are you doing here?”
“I—wanted to come home, and so I did. Where is Mama?”
The words no sooner left her mouth than Mrs. Barstow appeared from the kitchen, untying her apron, alarm in every feature. “Dear girl! Are you all right? Has something happened?”
And though nothing had happened that she could verify for a fact, in truth everything seemed to have happened since she was last home, and with a sob she flew into her mother’s arms, dampness and all.
“There, there, dear child! It will be all right now. But before you tell us anything, you must change into dry clothing, or you will catch your death. Did you fall into the Thames?”
Maria dashed at her streaming eyes. “I didn’t want Mrs. Lamb to see me, so I tried to creep behind the Tree Inn, and I’m afraid I lost my footing and slid down the bank into the rushes and mud.”
Their fussing comforted her, however, and an hour later Maria sat before the fire, clean, warm, and dry.
Cost her what it might, she had told her story from the beginning, from the earliest days of her marriage, quarrels and pretended kisses and all.
Because if her mama and Sarah were to judge rightly, nothing could be held back.
Only let them not decide against Benjamin, or Maria’s own determined good opinion of him might sustain a fatal blow!
When she was certain her daughter had no more to disclose, however, Mrs. Barstow declared at once, “But it’s perfect nonsense!
I understand Mrs. Marlow was out of her mind with anxiety, but it was very, very wrong of her both to imagine your Benjamin capable of such things and to give such suspicions voice!
What right had she to malign him, knowing him so little? ”
“Indeed,” Sarah concurred, pink with indignation.
“If Miss Allen had so many suitors, she might have eloped with any one of them. Why should Mr. Ellsworth be suspected, upon so slight a pretext? That he left town the same morning she did? Pooh. Only see how readily he agreed to do the honorable thing by you, Maria! He knew his duty at once, and Lord Dere had neither to threaten or insist. If Mr. Ellsworth were the sort of man Mrs. Marlow thinks he is—so easily tempted, so lost to virtue—he would never have married you in the first place.”
“I second this,” Mrs. Barstow rejoined. “Although in Maria he secured a treasure of a wife, he did not know it at the time, which meant his urge to do what was right was entirely disinterested. He had nothing whatever to gain by marrying you, darling, except a clear conscience.”
Her eyes filling, Maria threw grateful arms about her mother and sister-in-law.
“Thank you, thank you, Mama and Sarah, for your good opinion of him. I cannot tell you how it relieves me to hear you say so, because I hold him in the highest estimation! If you could only see him with his brother and mother, you would understand why I think him not only virtuous and good, but also good company. I only wish—”
“What, dearest?” her mother prompted.
“I only wish—that is—I wish Benjamin were not still keeping a secret—some kind of secret—from me! If not an elopement with Miss Allen, what can it be?”
“He said he would tell you in time,” Sarah reminded her.
“He did.”
Her sister-in-law grinned. “Perhaps he has apprenticed himself to a cabinetmaker, so that he can learn to make his own furniture.”
Then Maria laughed. A tearful laugh, but a laugh all the same. “Yes, if you could have seen how poor Lord Dere’s generosity hurt his pride! If the baron were to give us so much as a pincushion now, I would hide it from Benjamin. He would prefer to make his own way, you see.”
Sarah glanced at Mrs. Barstow. “Speaking of our friends at Perryfield…”
“We are invited to dine tonight.”
Maria stiffened. “Oh, don’t make me go! I don’t want to go, Mama.”
“Of course you needn’t go. In fact, it’s probably better that you don’t. Or that they don’t discover you’re in Iffley—yet.”
“You mean, it is better that Mrs. Dere not know.”
“That is precisely what I mean,” Mrs. Barstow admitted. “Though doubtless she will learn the news by tomorrow morning, when Irving goes to fetch the mail.”
“Oh, Mama—we cannot ask him not to tell anyone, I suppose?”
“He’s not a chatterbox, but to ask him not to mention your presence would make it seem as if we hoped to conceal your coming. And nothing remains hidden in Iffley for long, Maria. You know that.”
“I do,” she sighed, pulling a face.
“Besides. It would be better if I told the Deres myself,” Mrs. Barstow decided. “No doubt the baron will want to send the coach for you on the spot and have you join us, but—”
“But Mrs. Dere will raise her eyebrows in horror and call him ‘my dear baron’ and give him multiple reasons why he should forbear,” Maria finished for her. “And then she herself will light on me first thing tomorrow.”
Neither of her companions bothered to contradict this, and Sarah asked instead, “How long will you stay?”
Maria thought of the empty rooms in Pembroke Street and of Mrs. Marlow spreading who-knew-what rumor and panic about Oxford. She thought of her duties to the Cheneys the following week. When she had fled to Iffley, she only thought of going home, where she was loved. But now that she was here—
“May I—may I stay until Benjamin returns? It might only be another day or two. I will send notes to Mrs. Chop our landlady and to my employer Miss Cheney. I wonder if Miss Cheney would object if Miss Hancock took my place with her mother while I am absent, if it goes that long.” She didn’t say, If Benjamin doesn’t return, though she thought it, and so did Mrs. Barstow and Sarah.
Unease swirled in her stomach, despite her family’s assurances. Suppose Benjamin never returned? Suppose, despite their fervent, fervent faith in him, he was gone forever, and possibly with Miss Allen?
The next morning the weather had improved, along with Maria’s spirits. Here she was, for good or ill, and she had better take the bull by the horns.
“I will go for the post, Irving,” she announced to the manservant as he built the fire in the dining room. “I have letters to send.”
He gave a laconic nod, hiding any surprise he might feel.
He and Reed the maid had discussed Mrs. Ellsworth’s reappearance at length the day before, Reed thinking Miss Maria would have been wiser not to show her head in Iffley so soon, while Irving affirmed that, on the contrary, Miss Maria—or Mrs. Ellsworth, they should call her—had as much right to be seen in Iffley as anyone that lived.
Maria’s boldness faded as she approached the Tree Inn, however, seeing Mrs. Lamb sweeping the step.
“Mercy! Is that you, Miss B—Mrs. Ellsworth?” cried the postmistress, the broom slipping from her grasp to clatter down. “My word! I did not expect to see you again in Iffley for heaven knew how long!”
“Yes. Well, here I am,” Maria replied, her chin lifting. “Good morning, Mrs. Lamb. You look well. I have letters to put in.”
“Letters,” repeated the woman, as if she had never heard the word before. “Letters.” Distractedly she bent to retrieve the broom.
“Yes. Letters.” She held them out.
Mechanically Mrs. Lamb fanned them out and inspected the direction. “Oxford,” she said. “Might have delivered them yourself and saved them the pence.”
“Mm. Perhaps. But here I am in Iffley, with no intention of trooping thitherward today,” Maria persevered.
“But when did you come, miss? Mrs. Ellsworth, I mean to say.”
“Yesterday.”
“And me not seeing you! You must’ve stolen into Iffley like a ghost, you must have, and in such weather, wet and cold and nasty.”
With an expressive shrug Maria forced a smile. “I am young and strong. No ghost.”
“Oh, ay, I can see that,” agreed Mrs. Lamb, her sharp eyes dropping to Maria’s midsection, as if anything significant could be detected there, between Maria’s cloak (now brushed clean) and the recency of her marriage!
She clicked her tongue, repeating, “Ay. Young and strong to be sure. Not like Lord Dere’s poor old steward.
Out riding around on an icy day very much like yesterday was, and next thing you know, he’s struck down with catarrh and pneumony. ”
“Dear me, the poor man. Is he recovering?”
“Dead,” said Mrs. Lamb solemnly. “Dead as a herring.”
Maria made sympathetic murmurs, although she felt an inexplicable giggle bubbling up. What had poor herrings to do with death, in particular? People might be dead as stones, yes. Dead as clay, perfectly sensible. But why herrings? Were dead herrings deader than any other fish?
“Not only him,” the postmistress went on. “I suppose Mrs. Barstow wrote to you about Mrs. Cramthorpe’s lumbago?”
“Surely Mrs. Cramthorpe didn’t die as well!” gasped Maria.
“No, no, but it was a near thing. And no money to pay Mr. Travers’ fees, naturally.”