“What? Isn’t wanting to help normal?”
“Oh yes, very much, dear Melissa. But he’s gone, now. We should take tea. Perhaps that will settle our spirits.”
Melissa let the curtain fall and returned to the settee. “Yes, yes. That’s right, tea. I was expecting to take him some tea, but I’ll get a tray for us instead.”
As she gathered the tea things, she steadied herself with a few deep breaths and closed her eyes. With hands clenched on the tray handles, she sent up a petition, the only one she could think of with her thoughts whirling—Jesus, help me. Help him.
Melissa regained a measure of peace by the time she reached the parlor again. She poured tea for Miss Cleaver and spoke. “Upon reflection, I admit though Lord Russell’s color tended to the pale side, he didn’t appear to be in true agony. Let us hope his departure won’t cause a setback.”
“I agree. Worry does no good. We can only pray.” Miss Cleaver’s voice rang with finality and approval.
Melissa lifted another silent petition for help as she held a warm teacup between both hands.
Sitting in companionable silence with Priscilla, Melissa allowed herself to daydream about the unusual experience of being alone with a man. A young, handsome, albeit bedridden, one. The lack of rigidity here at the vicarage was a treat compared to the stiff social mores of London. How generous of Miss Cleaver to allow Melissa the small freedom of nursing Lord Russell. After all, he certainly hadn’t tainted her reputation, either when unconscious or awake and flat on his back. She recalled the moment he opened his eyes, while she tended him at the bedside. Shaking herself when this waking dream went on too long, she said farewell to the man of her dreams. Good-bye. You could have been my hero.
Miss Cleaver broke the silence “Remind me to talk to my brother about hiring a housemaid. I’m beginning to be acquainted with the stairs all too well. What made him think we needed only a cook, groom, gardener, and a day girl coming in from the village?” She threw her hands up in mock despair and departed.
Melissa’s thoughts kept her silent. Tending Lord Russell proved more delightful than one would expect, giving her a sense of worth. She’d basked in it, but it was over.
6
The next day dawned bright. Melissa needed the sun to overtake her ennui. Thoughts of Lord Russell crashed in before she even left her bed. Bless and keep Lord Russell. Please continue to heal him and guide him, amen. The gloom lifted for the time, but she dreaded the day. And her departure on the morrow.
The invigoration of taking care of the injured nobleman, even when he slept, enjoying his nearness, sitting ready if he needed help, gave life momentary purpose. But with that vigor gone, her motivation lagged.
Sun lanced into her plush bedroom, and she forced herself to throw off the silken bed coverings. She swung her feet to the floor.
After washing her face, she donned her most serviceable dress, one of the few that didn’t require a maid’s assistance. It slipped over her head and tied under the bust to draw in the fullness. A swift run of a comb through her hair, and twist, twist, pin—ready to face the day. What would it bring?
Breakfast waited, served from a buffet in the dining room. Covered dishes held eggs, ham, toast, jam, and coffee. She made her selections and joined her host at the table. Hidden behind a newspaper, he didn’t show any sign of noticing her presence.
“Good morning,” she sang out. “Where’s Priscilla?”
“What? Oh, it’s you. Good morning, Melissa.” Mr. Cleaver lowered the paper and lifted his coffee cup. “She’s gone to the village to replenish some stores.”
“I imagine she’ll return soon?” Melissa savored the fresh coffee. It made any breakfast taste even better. “The coffee here is superb. I must ask Miss Cleaver for the instructions.” She nibbled at the toast while Mr. Cleaver disappeared behind the paper.
“Mmph. Soon.”
“I think I’ll go back to my room.” She pushed back her chair and made to rise.
“Just a moment, dear. I’d like a word with you.”
At the minister’s command, she plunked back into her chair, deflated.
He lowered the paper, and with a sigh, folded it. “Ahem. You are here under my care, and I don’t like it that you’ve not gotten one dab of fresh air since two days ago. We appreciate your service to the injured, but Miss Cleaver and I must consider your welfare as well. Sending you back to London in a peaked state would not be acceptable.”
“I feel fine.” Melissa sat up straight and tried to exude excellent health. She hated the thought of being hemmed and cosseted here in the country, too. But perhaps Mr. Cleaver wondered about her interest in Lord Russell. Did fear underlay his worries?
“Good to hear. I’d like you to take a turn or two in the garden this morning after breakfast.”
“It will be my delight to comply.” She didn’t want to spare a minute thinking about returning home, but she had this last day to spend in the country with her good friends, the Cleavers. “When I came to visit, I never imagined I’d learn to be a sickroom maid,” she said with a laugh and lifted spirits.
From behind the paper, Mr. Cleaver spoke. “Perhaps you’d like to go on a call with me this afternoon?” He raised the paper again and rattled it.
“To a sick parishioner? Since I am now so experienced in caregiving?”
“Not exactly. I was thinking to call on Lord Russell, to ease my mind.”
Melissa reached over and pushed down the newspaper. “Yes, yes, yes. I’d love to pay that visit with you. One o’clock?”
“One will be fine.” He rattled the paper back into position.
“I’ll go out and stroll in the garden now.” At least at the vicarage she could set a toe outside without a chaperone—whether maid or companion. In London, she dared not take a walk alone. She hurried to drink the rest of her coffee, retrieved her shawl and bonnet from the hall, and exited the front door while tying the strings under her chin.
A deep mouthful of fresh country air woke Melissa all the way. She breathed in the early spring as she moved toward the garden paths behind the house. Earthy scents hinted at the glories to come. The smell of rain so prominent in the air, she held up a palm to test for raindrops. Precipitation would make the morning drag, and her heart clamored to get over to Russell Manor to check on Lord Russell. Since she had to wait until one o’clock, she puttered around to the back of the house and glanced up at the window of the room in which he’d lain. How was he today? Better? She hoped Miss Cleaver purchased plenty of medicines. She could take some along in case he needed them.
She’d pick daffodils later. They’d be cheery for Lord Russell. Half-reluctant, half-enjoying the moist morning air, Melissa entered the path. In the shape of a cloverleaf, the vicarage garden paths offered a route that looped around three beds and boasted a fountain and bench in the center.
Meticulously set paving stones made the way smooth, and Melissa meandered to the third loop before the first rumble of distant thunder. She loved storms but not getting caught out in them. She grabbed up her skirt and ran to the kitchen door, reached in, and took a pair of shears off a hook nearby. “Betsy, I’m borrowing these shears. I’ll be right back.”
She scampered over to the yellow blooms and lanced off half a dozen before fat raindrops began to fall. These would do. A dash to the kitchen door prevented a full soaking, and she entered and stripped off her damp bonnet and shawl.
“Where might I find a vase?” She held up the small floral offering, a handful of daffodils.
“I’ve got something under here.” Betsy squatted down and rummaged in a lower cupboard, emerging with a dented pewter cup. “Will this do?”
“That’s perfect. Exactly the size.” Melissa filled the impromptu vase from a water jug and placed the flowers within. “I love the sound of rain. Don’t you?”
“The sound’s fine, but the mud, no.” Betsy turned away and went back to her baking, Thursday being the day she made a dozen loaves of bread to last t
he week through.
Heart skittering in anticipation, Melissa arranged the blooms. She carried them to the study to pass the time until the visit and arrived at the door only to hear the end of a conversation.
“I told him to rest. No getting up unless absolutely necessary. Moving to Russell Manor was not my prescription. Instructed him to stay in a dim, quiet room. That’s what’ll fix him. The nasty cudgeling he took could have severe consequences to his mental abilities if he doesn’t follow my orders.” The doctor’s voice carried well.
A second voice mumbled an assent.
Dr. Swithins emerged from the study, almost colliding with Melissa. With a curt nod, he departed.
Overhearing the doctor’s dire warnings caused her a pang. She hoped the doctor was wrong about Lord Russell. She missed her patient. Who’d have thought tending a sick person would be so rewarding? She did hope he’d recover—soon.
7
In the dimly-lit library at Russell Manor, Mark scowled at the account books open on the massive desk in front of him. He shoved them away, avoiding the tray of lunch he’d ordered and ignored. Concentration eluded him. However anxious to take his place as master of the estate, he chafed at the restrictions enforced by his recovery. Languor hung over him like a heavy cape, with only moments of improved strength and vigor breaking through. Such responsibility as he’d not been trained for also weighed him down. His brother James, a superlative landowner, left big shoes to fill.
Forearm over his eyes, he allowed a daydream of her again. Miss Southwood. He missed her gentle touch and sweet spirit. Her presence once brought a balm to his wounds, but thoughts of her were all he had for comfort now. She was an angel—a darling angel. Regret laced his memories of her tender mercies.
Physical symptoms lessened even after one day home at the manor. He gave his foot a tentative wiggle. The pain in his ankle throbbed less. He took a few deep breaths and ran fingertips over the bump on his head. Ouch. Better, but tender.
The drive to be more active, to take the full reins of the estate, itched like a burr under a saddle. Why had the attack happened? Possessing a tenuous new lease on life, and on his way home, and then cast down to the depths of pain, despair, and loss.
He tussled a while longer with the mental quandary of ‘why?’ and then vowed to recover his health. No criminal act would rob him of his heritage. He smacked his fist on the desk, pulled the account books toward himself, and gathered his remaining scraps of determination.
Victorious, he gave the accounts his full attention for almost an hour, when Crabtree, the butler, stuck his head into the room. “Visitors, Lord Russell.”
“Well, my good man, who is it?”
First glancing over his shoulder, Crabtree answered. “It’s the vicar and a young lady. Didn’t catch her name.”
Mark’s heart leapt. The ministering angel from the vicarage? “Put them in the drawing room. I’ll join them soon. Have tea brought in.”
Crabtree closed the door. Mark leaned back in his chair, steepled fingers under his chin, his attention once again drawn to the portrait of his brother hung above the fireplace. The commanding gaze even now humbled Mark. His brother had been such a champion. Whatever he’d set his hand to, he’d excelled. Boxing, fencing, investing, marrying well, raising a family, managing the estate, doubling its acreage. And on and on. Mark stiffened his spine and gave himself a lecture. No dabbling with the hearts of young ladies—raising their expectations. A titled man now, he needed to proceed with caution and steel himself from developing a tendre for little Miss Southwood from the vicarage.
Rising, he winced, but less than the day before. He yanked down his waistcoat, smoothed his lapels, and raked fingers through his coarse curls. As if these motions could order his heart.
He entered the drawing room full of half-forced bonhomie. “Welcome, Mr. Cleaver, Miss Southwood. I’ve ordered tea.” His heart chimed at the sight of her loveliness. She wore a ruffled white dress which suited the innocent maiden well.
“Thank you for agreeing to our visit. Such an impromptu call imposing on a newly-arrived neighbor…” Nerves tinged the pastor’s words.
“Not an imposition. Nothing of the kind. You brought my sorry self back from death’s door. You are always welcome here, Mr. Cleaver.” He patted the man’s shoulder and gestured toward a cluster of comfortable armchairs. He stepped aside and waved Miss Southwood to precede him. “Let us sit.”
“How are you today?” The minister opened the conversation.
Mark didn’t want to be fussed over anymore, no matter the level of pain and exhaustion.
“Never better.” He lied and closed his eyes fleetingly, assessing the truth of this statement. When he opened them, he caught her glance before she looked away. Good. She mustn’t be encouraged by errant favors. Meeting her was the merest happenstance, regardless of how much affection for her warmed him. The manor needed his full attention.
“Welcome to my home. I’m pleased by your visit and to thus return a small measure of your hospitality.”
“Our pleasure. I can now boast we were the first to claim the honor of entertaining you under our roof.”
“Dubious honor.” Mark smiled, enjoying the minister’s light humor. “Must say, not the arrival I imagined either, to land flat on my back in one of the vicinity’s wetter ditches.”
“Indeed, quite an out-of-ordinary advent.” Her musical, feminine voice soothed him, but he mustn’t focus on such distractions.
“You gave us quite a start when you departed so soon.” Mr. Cleaver’s eyebrows shot up.
“I couldn’t delay taking up the reins of Russell Manor. I am sorry if I offended you.”
“Don’t mention it. We understand. It was a shock, as we expected a long, slow, recovery.”
“Yes. Well, it’s in the blood. Russells are hard to keep down.” Perhaps now they could speak of something other than the troubles of the lord of the manor.
“Are you healed?” Melissa’s fingers flew to her lips as if she regretted her words.
“A few pangs. I won’t deny several more days in bed would have been a pleasure. However, duties called. I’ve inspected the stables and plan to tour the farms later today.” As much as he enjoyed her company, he needed to run an estate.
“Miss Cleaver and I will pray for your return to good health.” Prim, she made this statement while staring down at her folded gloved hands in her muslin-gowned lap.
That’s when he noticed she was holding a container of daffodils. Her cheeks turned a delightful shade of pink as she held them out toward him. “These are for you. It’s traditional to bring flowers to the sick.”
“Thank you very much. Charming.” He took the blooms and set them on the table. Where is that tea? Acting the lord was annoying, and the sooner the beverage cart was rolled in and the tea consumed, the better. Perhaps then he could get this darling girl and her daffodils off his mind. How singular…receiving flowers from a young lady. Life in the country must loosen the rules.
Tea arrived, and the visit wore on with Mr. Cleaver nattering.
“As I was saying, the church will welcome your presence in the Russell family pew.”
“Yes, I’m sure…when I can attend.” His guests’ crestfallen expressions would be funny if guilt hadn’t blindsided him. He’d never yet understood the appeal of attending worship services, and it wouldn’t do to raise false hopes. Making occasional appearances at the local church may be part of the duties as lord of the manor and leading citizen of the district, but could be limited.
When twenty minutes elapsed, the chatty minister rose, signaling an end to his call. “Again, we’re happy with the evidence of your recovery. The district will be the better for your presence.”
“Thank you for that welcome and for rescuing me. Let’s hope that’s the end of crime hereabouts for the nonce.” He turned to Melissa and bowed over her hand. As he stood erect again, he allowed his eyes to enjoy her demure form, her alabaster neck, and her lovely fac
e.
“Lord Russell, I am glad you are mending. My mind shall rest easy on that point as I journey to London.”
“Thank you again for the flowers—for everything, Miss Southwood.” Her pale face held a guarded quality—so different from the tender expressions she wore as she took care of him. Perhaps he’d gone too far at depressing any attentions from her in the future. He bowed. “Good-bye, fair heroine. May London treat you well.”
~*~
Melissa prepared for the scheduled trip home. Her bag packed, she waited for a female servant. Such a bother to need help to fasten the back of one’s gown. At least panniers were no longer in style. While waiting, she mused over Lord Russell’s odd demeanor yesterday afternoon during the call. One moment he appeared to be all admiration, the next, neutral and distant. At least he wouldn’t cut up her peace in London.
Arrangements were in place for her to be picked up by her father’s coach today. What Papa wanted, he got. But on the heels of two exciting days with her patient, fantasies taunted her. Fantasies in which Lord Russell stayed abed and she continued to assist with tending the handsome and fascinating victim.
Papa harbored mysterious plans for this spring and hinted at marrying her off. How he planned to achieve that was a mystery. He had a reputation as an effective businessman, but surely matchmaking remained beyond him. Perhaps he’d only planned a trip to Cornwall to visit the relatives. She might be anxious for nothing.
Still, she didn’t want to leave for London today, whatever the reason. She loved her former governess Priscilla, now housekeeper at her brother’s vicarage. And the country provided Melissa much more freedom. Never in London would her wealthy merchant father allow her to step out of the house alone. In idyllic rural Russelton, however, a simple stroll could be taken without being hemmed about with maids, grooms, or chaperones.
Even more than ruing parting from her place of freedom, she found that Lord Russell drew her thoughts like a magnet. If she were honest, what young woman would want to leave now when a fascinating gentleman appeared on the quiet scene of country life?
A Match for Melissa Page 4
