A Match for Melissa

by Susan Karsten

  Betsy bustled in, wiping work-worn hands on her apron. “Came as soon as able, miss.”

  Melissa turned her back toward the woman. “Thank you for breaking away from your duties. I can’t reach the fastenings myself.” Betsy had the dress hooked in no time.

  The crunch of gravel outside the vicarage indicated the arrival of her father’s carriage, right on schedule. She peeked out the window to verify her fears. Yes, there sat the glossy black Southwood family coach. The retinue sent to retrieve her included a coachman, a groom serving as outrider, and her lady’s maid, Tessie. It would be good to have Tessie around again, even though she’d gotten by without her. However regretful to leave, such careful planning must stand, not thrown over merely for her whims.

  She rapped on the windowpane and waved at Tessie before snatching her cloak and descending to the parlor where she found her former governess, Miss Cleaver. After such an unusual ending to an initially placid, bucolic visit, as well as not knowing what awaited Melissa in London, farewells carried more weight and portent.

  She linked arms with her friend, and they stood side by side, facing the window, observing the groom stowing Melissa’s bags. “Priscilla, going home now doesn’t suit me.”

  “Now, now, dear. You can visit again, Lord willing.” She touched Melissa’s cheek with a caress.

  “Don’t. You’ll make me cry. Leaving when something so out of the ordinary has happened doesn’t seem right. But Lord Russell is back on his feet, and only his return to health matters.”

  “Indeed. Finding him as you did was dramatic.” Miss Cleaver sighed and moved away from the window. “I must bid you farewell now.”

  Melissa followed Miss Cleaver out to the driveway. Near the open coach door, Melissa stood hand-in-hand with her friend for a bit of last-minute conversation. “Please write soon, Priscilla.” The main news she wanted was of the patient, but she didn’t voice her desire.

  Miss Cleaver gave Melissa’s hand a squeeze. “Yes, I will, dear. Have I ever told you wearing brown does wonders to your eyes?”

  “You have, once or twice.” The transparent attempt at distraction made her smile, but only for a moment. “I’d rather be staying.”

  “I hope you are healthy enough to travel. Did the tisane I prepared for you completely relieve your symptoms? You suffered no recurrences, correct? After your initial state of shock after the rescue?”

  “The tisane helped quite adequately. That little spell of lightheadedness is long over, but my concern for the unfortunate Lord Russell continues to weigh on my heart. When we visited him yesterday, something told me he was in considerable pain, even though he did not mention it.” Melissa held a gloved hand flat against her chest where warm compassion insisted on throbbing for him. “Such a pity the attack happened in this normally-peaceful district. I’m relieved Papa sent the armed outrider.”

  Melissa hugged Miss Cleaver, kissed her on both cheeks, and waved her handkerchief until a curve in the road put her out of sight. With her eyes closed, Melissa rested on the squabs. Absently, she twirled one long golden curl, pulled it, and let it spring back. Headed home to London to face her father’s machinations did nothing to dispel thoughts of the man recuperating alone on his lavish estate. Though she was curious about her father’s plans, Lord Russell’s image kept intruding in her mind’s eye, and her disobedient heart ached.

  8

  “Sir?”

  The sound intruded on his sleep. Lifting his head from where it fell over the account books late last night, Mark opened his eyes to the sight of the butler approaching, a quizzical frown on his face.

  “Ah. You are awake. A visitor awaits in the morning room. Shall I send her away?”

  “Who is it?” Mark massaged the back of his neck, gaze landing on an empty brandy decanter. Memories of wallowing in an agony of confusion wove through his painful head.

  “It’s Miss Cleaver. She has something for you. In a basket.”

  “I’ll need ten minutes, but bring some coffee to my rooms first.”

  “Yes, sir. Of course. I’ll get coffee to your rooms shortly.”

  Mark ran light-footed up the stairs and dashed to his room. A servant had been in, because clean linens were laid across his dressing chair. Mark splashed his face with cold water from a pitcher and stripped off his wrinkled clothes from yesterday. Crabtree entered with a steaming silver coffeepot and poured a cup of black coffee.

  “Crabtree, can you help a moment with this cravat? Can’t seem to manage the knot today.” He held out the strip of linen and took that chance to down an entire cup of the black rejuvenating brew before subjecting his neck to Crabtree’s ministrations.

  Scampering down the stairs, tiredness forgotten, and with an elegant knot in his tie, he entered the morning room to meet his guest. Miss Cleaver was seated near a window, holding a basket on her lap, using two hands to grip it.

  “Good morning, Miss Cleaver. To what do I owe the pleasure of your call?”

  “Heavens, I hope I didn’t disturb you, but I wanted to bring you some restoratives.” She rummaged in the basket and drew out a jar. “Calf’s foot jelly—for healing.” She replaced the wide jar, and then withdrew another item, a crock. “Broth. Nothing like broth to speed a return to high good health.” After repositioning the crock, she withdrew a packet. “Dried powder of willow bark—for any lingering pains.”

  “I’m grateful, ma’am. So thoughtful of you.” He smiled. “Might I ask if Miss Southwood will be at home later?”

  “Miss Southwood departed for London earlier this morning. Her father sent a coach as arranged.”

  A stab of loss and loneliness crashed in the region of his heart. Not trusting himself to speak, he simply gave a barely-audible, involuntary groan.

  Miss Cleaver fussed with the basket. “She’s a lovely person, and we will all miss her.”

  He gathered his wits and popped out the first thing that entered his mind. “Weren’t you speaking to me about green pastures whilst I tarried at the vicarage?”

  “That was Wednesday night you must be recalling. I read the twenty-third Psalm to you. I always share the passage with sick or injured folk. It offers a balm to all men. Was it that for you?”

  “I suppose, in as much as the valley of the shadow of death can be. It pertained somewhat to my situation.”

  Uncertainty flickered as he thought over the Psalm again. He had no right to take comfort from such goodness because of the way he lived. His life would not please God.

  When flat on his back, despair bore down on him. Now that he was home, another type of flatness descended on his spirits. It stung to admit even to himself how low he’d fallen. Halted from a descending spiral, he hit bottom with a sickening thump, landing at what appeared to be a fork in the path. “My morale is low.”

  “That can happen after an illness, however brief.”

  “A new opportunity has been laid before me. Changes to be made. When I inherited the title and the estate, I received the beginning of a new life. It seems more is necessary.” He sensed something lurked beyond his grasp—an elusive truth, perhaps.

  “One thing is true—there’s no proper happiness to be found without a life of faith.” Her face was as calm as if they were discussing the price of wheat.

  She reminded him of his Aunt Lucy. That relaxed his guard, allowing vulnerability to worm its way out. The next words out of his mouth surprised even him. “Miss Cleaver, I intend to firmly resolve to live right as I take up the serious matters of life.”

  “That’s admirable, but with all due respect, my lord, lacking the help of our Maker, none of us can do anything good. Any attempt to reform ourselves without His grace and mercy shall fail. No matter the strong resolve one may vow to live aright, one must submit to the Almighty and cast oneself upon His care.” Miss Cleaver leaned forward in her chair with her eyes intent and a smile on her face—again, as if she were discussing crops.

  “If I put in a great effort…you are saying even that won’
t be enough? Won’t bring me peace?”

  Miss Cleaver paused, took a breath, and Mark sensed an imminent sermon. “In the same Psalm was the line, ‘Yea though I walk through the Valley of the Shadow of Death, I shall fear no evil. For Thou art with me...’ God is with him. That’s the difference. This does remind me of your mishap. This is an example of the Word applying to one’s lives. Scripture is like a double-edged sword.”

  “But I’ll do my best.”

  “I’m sure you will.” Her sincere tone dragged Mark’s mind back to his insecurities about living up to his brother.

  “You’ve resolved to live better. But remember, not one of us can reform without God’s grace and mercy.”

  Mark’s gut clenched since he never expected to take part in a conversation of this depth. Now he’d be in for a lecture. Do I really want this? I’m so tired.

  Crabtree stuck his head through the open door. “Sir, there’s an emergency in the lower field. The steward needs you.”

  Mark stood, and bowed over Miss Cleaver’s hand. “Thank you for the basket. And for the visit. Please, excuse me.” He left the room with a sense of escaping her net.

  ~*~

  Later that day, Miss Cleaver recounted the visit to her brother. “The moment I was ministering to Lord Russell’s spiritual need, he left to take care of an emergency.”

  “All is yet well, Priscilla.” Mr. Cleaver tried to temper his sister’s disappointment. “He needs time to digest your words. He’ll be here many years to come, Lord willing. I am sure God will give another opportunity to share the Gospel with him.”

  “You’re right. That man has a need for truth.”

  “I agree,” said the minister. “He requires God’s wondrous grace.”

  Betsy spoke from the doorway and held out a stiff vellum envelope. “Excuse me, Mr. Cleaver, Miss Cleaver, but a messenger from the manor delivered this.”

  Miss Cleaver rose with alacrity and took the message from the servant. “That will be all, Betsy.” The door closed with a click.

  “What do you suppose that is?” Mr. Cleaver stretched his feet out toward the fire and put his hands behind his head, leaning back.

  She moved to a desk in the corner, slit the envelope, and withdrew its contents. After a moment’s perusal, she answered. “It’s an invitation to dinner at Russell Manor tomorrow night. How kind of Lord Russell. I shall send our acceptance immediately.” She sat at the desk and pulled together writing tools: pen, bottle of ink, blotter, and a sheet of foolscap. She scribbled for a minute or two, sanded the letter, and folded it.

  “It shall be a pleasant evening out. I’m glad we are on such a friendly footing with the new lord of the manor. His brother was very pleasant but kept busy with his family. I do believe Lord Russell might be lonely.”

  “Perhaps. We can say for sure that he is hospitable. Kind, too, when I called on him yesterday with Melissa.”

  “I enjoyed being a part of his rescue and recovery,” Priscilla added. “That over and Melissa gone, it’s terribly quiet here with only you for company.”

  Mr. Cleaver smiled at this remark but said only, “Indeed.”

  “I shall read to you for a while.” She did, until snores told her he was asleep, and she quietly closed her book.

  ~*~

  The next evening arrived, and by seven, the Cleavers and Dr. Swithins, the only other guest, were seated comfortably in the elaborate drawing room on the west side of Russell Manor.

  “I’ve invited you, Miss and Mr. Cleaver, Dr. Swithins, to dinner to show my gratitude, in a small way, for all you did for me in my hour of need,” Mark spoke from his position near the fireplace.

  “You are quite welcome. Isn’t that right, Mr. Cleaver?” Miss Cleaver glowed with pleasure, a sparkling crystal glass of cordial in her hand.

  “Yes. We are very happy and blessed to have been of service. I don’t even care to think of what might have happened if Melissa hadn’t found you. Why, you were inches from being under water.” Mr. Cleaver loosely clenched his fist and waved it vaguely in the direction of the road.

  Not caring to dwell on might-have-beens, Mark landed on a somewhat lighter topic. “Too bad Miss Southwood has returned to London. Otherwise, she’d be here tonight as well.”

  Dr. Swithins and Mr. Cleaver began a debate on probability versus providence. That gave Mark the chance he wanted to speak to Miss Cleaver. “I hope you didn’t think me foolish yesterday with all my talk of matters of faith.”

  “Oh, la! Hardly that. I assure you that your conversation was perfectly in order. Can’t say when I’ve discussed topics of such importance with a young man, if ever. I enjoyed every minute of it. We can’t chatter on nonsense forever—occasionally we must discuss the essential things of existence.”

  “You spent many years as a governess in the Southwood home, correct?”

  “Indeed, yes. The best times of my life. Caring for such a dear girl as Melissa Southwood. Oh, yes.”

  “Can you tell me some stories of those times in London?” Mark wanted to learn more about her. Only a few feet away, the other men were intently hashing out matters of great import, but he didn’t have the stomach for serious talk right now. The lighter side of life would relieve his angst, if only for the time.

  “Let me think.” She retrieved her reticule and rummaged for a handkerchief before speaking. Letting out a sigh, she began to reminisce. “I remember when Miss Southwood got the idea in her head to learn everything about how to run a fine home. The Southwood mansion consists of upwards of thirty rooms, making it quite a task she set herself.”

  “Large for a London house.”

  “Yes, and so, during the course of an ‘apprenticeship’ with the housekeeper, she found a sad lack in the furnishings of the servants’ quarters. Miss Southwood was told it had always been that way.” Miss Cleaver chuckled at the memory. “She approached her father. A week later, three wagons full of sturdy furniture arrived to replace the shabby furnishings. What a darling! She selected it all herself and even ordered a new sewing rocker for my room.” She dabbed her eyes with the square of linen.

  The poor woman seemed bereft. “Miss Southwood sounds like a fine young lady.”

  “Oh, yes. The finest.”

  “She took care of me at the vicarage, but I didn’t really learn much about her.” He delighted in the memory of the sweet young lady’s presence. Was it wrong to want to escape the pressures of his new responsibilities by hearing about Miss Southwood? He listened and painted a mental picture.

  “Oh, what can I add? She’s a paragon of character and maidenly virtue. Miss Southwood is also quite talented in drawing, languages, embroidery, and home management. She has an eye for style and fashion, too. Her taste is exquisitely subtle and feminine.” Miss Cleaver trailed off, lost in thought.

  “What color are her eyes?” He’d seen her but wanted to hear about her, especially since she was now gone. No chance of simply running across her in the neighborhood.

  Too bad she’d had to depart.

  “Pretty brown velvety eyes. It’s hard to describe why, but they remind me of a pansy flower. Do you remember her eyes?”

  “Yes, but you’re painting a lovely picture with words.” Mark savored the mental vision of Melissa. Poor Miss Cleaver must think him an odd duck. Better stop with the questions.

  ~*~

  Miss Cleaver fell silent, musing about the attraction between the two young people. She glanced over at Lord Russell. He’d joined the men and was drawn into their conversation, which had moved on to the topic of hunting. She hoped he wasn’t bored with all her talk.

  She took this moment to send up a thought to God to forgive her for pride in Melissa’s accomplishments and beauty. Her thoughts flew to that young lady, now without Miss Cleaver’s companionship and in need of God’s protection. The poor girl’s hands were full dealing with such a father.

  9

  Mr. Southwood’s secretary brought Melissa instructions to appear in the study at thre
e. This formal summons was unprecedented. With an hour to wait, she sat and hummed to herself in the drawing room in her family’s London home, luxurious compared to the vicarage. The unusual ending to her visit in the country had been set aside. Pining for those uncomplicated days must end, or she’d never be content. Meeting Lord Russell was a fluke and was in the past, not to be mentioned here in London. Heavens! If Papa became aware of how free her life was on those country visits, he might forbid them.

  A persistent sneaking suspicion crept in that her father would try to arrange a marriage. What else could the meeting be about? He rarely met with her alone.

  She called to mind her favorite verse and quoted it, speaking the words softly to herself. “Delight yourself in the LORD and he will give you the desires of your heart.” She soon fell into silent prayer. Lord, thank You for Your promise to give me the desires of my heart—to be a wife and mother. Please help me delight in You while I wait for the man of Your choosing.

  Humming, Melissa twirled a curl near her cheek as she pondered her future. Marriage. She forced down the pulse that throbbed when Lord Russell came to mind. Matrimony was her only realistic choice, and she wasn’t opposed. In fact, she would love to be a wife. God would sustain her, come what may. If it were a man even half as attractive as Lord Russell, she’d need to be satisfied.

  A mere month shy of nineteen, the social order’s label of spinster would soon descend on her shoulders. How unfair. If a man put off thoughts of marriage until he reached thirty or more, no one blinked an eye.

  She’d had no coming-out ball or presentation at court as the daughter of a merchant. Her father’s low birth, despite his great wealth, excluded her from participation in the haute ton’s marriage mart.

  Her unique position posed a dilemma. Brought up to be a lady, yet barred from high society. How did anyone expect her to make a desirable union with an appropriate man?

  With God’s help, she must marry a believer, however, and her determination not to stray from that precept might not please Papa. The manner in which he’d raged at God after Mama died left her in the dark on his current beliefs. When she reaffirmed her convictions regarding marriage to Papa, his faith crisis could cause ructions. Though under the authority of her father, she must hold fast to her ideal of marrying a man of God. A kind, honorable man.