Chapter Twenty-Nine
…We would bring him on to some confession of his true state.
Maria persuaded her family to arrive early to church, that they might be seated in their pew before other parishioners arrived.
Because the Barstow family sat directly behind the Deres, it meant she would not have to converse with anyone until after the service, by which time she hoped the congregation might have overcome their initial burst of fascination.
Flanked by her nephew Ranulph and her mother, she kept her bonnet brim lowered and trained straight ahead, not even turning when Bumble Babykins made charming brrrrrrr sounds on Mrs. Barstow’s lap.
Her ears could not be stopped, however, and she caught the sounds of people shuffling into their pews behind her, as well as the growing buzz of whispers.
“Mrs. Barstow. Mrs. Langworthy.” The Chaunceys took their seats behind them.
Hearing Mrs. Chauncey clear her throat with her familiar chirp, Maria braced for the moment she might be tapped on the shoulder and addressed, but it never came.
Instead the chirp broke off in a sharp breath and a “Whoever is that with the Deres?”
Who indeed? Maria longed to look round, as little Ranulph and Emmy and even ten-year-old Bash did at once, but she resisted.
With Peter Dere in Oxford, his mother Mrs. Markham Dere led the way into the front pew, Maria recognizing her firm, confident steps. Then, far more hesitant, the gait of the stranger.
Between the top of the pew and the edge of her bonnet brim, Maria saw a strip of black broadcloth. But only for a moment. Then the shoulders—for they were shoulders—began to turn, narrowing, until they became a bar of black wool, a dab of pearl-grey silk, and a froth of white.
Mrs. Dere coughed.
The rector Mr. Terry swept up the aisle.
The full strip of black broadcloth returned.
Only when Mr. Terry had begun the Psalms did Maria dare to lift her head, and when she did her eyes flew wide and both gloved hands rose to hold back the exclamation which rose to her lips.
Benjamin! It could be no other. The upright carriage.
The waving black hair just a snip overlong. The breadth of his shoulders.
He had returned!
But what was he doing with the Deres? When had he come? Did he even know she sat behind him? If he had come in search of her, why had he not gone to Iffley Cottage?
It didn’t matter, she told herself. Because there he sat again, near enough to touch. Her faith in him had been justified. He had not run away with Miss Allen. He had come back to her!
All through the first and second lessons, the hymn, and well into the sermon, Maria gazed at the back of her husband to her heart’s content, and he must have felt it, for he shifted his weight from time to time, and once his hand lifted to rub the back of his neck.
If only he would turn around! Although, why should he? It would be most irregular. Maria certainly never turned around to look at the Chaunceys behind her. The service was long enough, however, for doubt to creep in.
Did he sit like a prisoner between the baron and Mrs. Dere because he had somehow been caught by them?
She remembered Lord Dere having to rescue Jane’s future husband Philip Egerton from the Oxford watch-house when he fell foul of the law. Could it possibly, possibly be that Benjamin had indeed run away with Miss Allen, only to be captured and dragged back to the wife he didn’t want?
Mercifully, Maria’s suspense was nearly at an end.
The congregation stood for the collect and benediction, and before Mr. Terry pronounced the final amen, Benjamin turned and uttered in a low, thrilling voice, “Maria.”
Her eyes rose to his and held, a hundred questions in them and as many reassurances in his. Unconsciously their hands reached for each other, their fingers brushing before Lord Dere led the way from the pew and he must follow.
“I’m going. You needn’t push me, Aunt Maria,” protested Ranulph.
“I never did,” she retorted, blushing as she followed him out, but behind her Mrs. Barstow chuckled.
And though every eye locked on her as the Barstows made their exit, Maria no longer cared, being too anxious to be reunited with her husband.
The Deres wouldn’t carry him off at once, would they? It would be too cruel.
In her anxiety Maria could be forgiven for imagining such a thing, but no—there they stood speaking to Mr. Terry outside the church door.
For his part, Benjamin could spare only a modicum of attention for the clergyman as he was introduced.
“Good morning. Yes. An honor and a pleasure. And here is my wife—”
(“I was offended on the rector’s behalf,” Mrs. Markham Dere later told Mrs. Terry. “The way he bounded away from Mr. Terry and nearly knocked down Mrs. Barstow’s grandchildren to catch at Maria’s hand! As if there were not all the time in the world to see her and talk to her!”
“Oh, Mrs. Dere,” the rector’s cheerful lady replied, “do you not remember your honeymoon days? The Ellsworths are only recently wed, you know. And young love will be young love.”)
Maria glowed up at her husband. She could not help it. She should perhaps have been cold, but coldness was impossible. “You came back,” she murmured.
“Came back?” he wondered. “Of course I came back. I said I would. The thing you should fear more is that I may never leave your side again.”
“Ah,” sighed Maria, happiness flooding her.
“Will you return to Pembroke Street with me?” he murmured.
She had just time to nod (eagerly) before the rest of the village spilled out of the church to surround them, and the gauntlet of introductions, stares, and comments must be run.
Benjamin and Maria smiled till their cheeks hurt, bowed, acknowledged kind remarks, feigned deafness to unkind ones, thanked, demurred, forced laughs, and answered questions.
As Mrs. Lamb had done, others threw investigative glances at the bride’s midsection, and Mrs. Bellew was overheard by Sarah to declare, “There’ll be a baby by Michaelmas—mark my words,” to which the doctor Mr. Travers added under his breath, “Rubbish.”
The baron appeared beside them. “Here is my coach, Maria. May Mrs. Dere and I set you and Mr. Ellsworth down in Pembroke Street?”
“But—how did he come to be with you?” she asked as quietly as she could.
“I will let him explain that, my dear. Come.”
Despite the elegance and comfort of the Perryfield coach and the presence of her husband beside her, with Mrs. Dere’s stern gaze upon her Maria could not enjoy the drive, much less cling to Benjamin’s arm and ask any of the questions boiling in her mind.
Not that they rode in complete silence.
“I think that went very well,” ventured the baron as the coach rolled up Church Way beside the Upper Field, “and that you Ellsworths may now come and go in Iffley as you please.”
“What choice did the villagers have in the matter?” Mrs. Dere sniffed. “They all look to you, Uncle, to set the example.”
“And so I have, Alice,” he answered in his gentle way.
Her lips compressed in a line, but she said no more, and soon they were clattering over the Pettypont.
“Mrs. Barstow will be glad to have Gordon home for his Easter vacation,” Lord Dere tried again, nodding toward Magdalen College as they passed, “as we will Peter. Though I daresay Iffley Cottage has not felt so empty as Perryfield, with the Langworthys and your nephews Ranulph and Bumble Babykins there.”
(“‘Bumble Babykins,’ indeed!” muttered Mrs. Dere.)
“No, sir,” replied Maria. “Home seemed as busy as ever, though I know Della will be yearning for the measles to run their course, that she might have Ranulph and Bonkers back.”
(Wordless shudder from Mrs. Dere.)
“Very true, Maria. We will have to make sure the poor Weatherills enjoy some peace themselves in which to recuperate, when Keele’s epidemic has passed.”
Here his niece by marriage shut her eyes helplessly, doubtless picturing the baron sending Gerard, Della, and their three sons straight off to take the waters at Cheltenham.
This dread lasted until they reached the Carfax, at which point she rallied to peer from the window, doubtless hoping for a glimpse of her son, as if Peter might spend his Sundays loitering outside the walls of Christ Church.
At last the coach turned into Pembroke Street, Harker unfolding the steps and assisting the Ellsworths to alight.
Benjamin caught the coach door before it shut and looked in. “Thank you, sir.”
Lord Dere gave him a nod. “You will do very well, young man.”
After Harker climbed up to rejoin Ogle, the vehicle lurched into motion again, but not before Mrs. Dere’s voice carried to their ears: “Well! And not a word of thanks or farewell to me, mind you…”
Then, at last, Benjamin and Maria were alone. Not alone in a silent, empty world—Oxford was never silent nor empty, even on a Sunday morning—but they were alone. No one in the streets and none of the passing vehicles had any claim upon them.
Benjamin took her hand. “Shall we go inside, Mrs. Ellsworth?”
With a trembling smile, she nodded. “I—have no idea what I’ve done with my key, though.”
“Fear not.” He patted one pocket of his waistcoat, smiled to himself, and then withdrew the key from the opposite pocket. But when he inserted it in the lock, both lock and key flew from his grasp.
“Mr. Ellsworth!” cried Mrs. Chop, flinging open the door. “And Mrs. Ellsworth! Why—we thought you’d gone for good!”
A sliver of Miss Pork’s head appeared round the side of her mother. “You thought, Mama, but I told you he might return, at least! When there was no longer a price on his head.”
“What price?” cried Benjamin and Maria in unison.
Rundell’s head popped up over her mistress’s shoulder. “I thought he might come, ma’am, but not her—” pointing at Maria “not after she stumped it and left the rent money.”
“Well, here we both are,” insisted Benjamin reasonably. “Are you letting us in or not?”