Antsy, it was hard to be still. She stood, smoothed the skirt of her white, high-waisted gown, and paced from one end of the sizeable room to the other. Her patience was tried, waiting to find out what decree her father would be handing down this time.
What else could it be? Not a trip—he never left the business. Her father’s loss of faith lessened her hopes of marital bliss. Without faith, what would be his guide in the selection of a husband? She knew enough of him to guess aristocratic lineage would be the foremost criterion. He was obsessed with gaining a title. Could he be counted on to choose a man of good character?
She absently stroked the soft green velvet sash of her dress and remembered.
Soon after her eighteenth birthday, life changed. Her mother’s death at only eight and thirty years shocked everyone. One day, happiness and laughter over a joke at the family supper table, and the very next day saw the onset of a mysterious illness which quickly worsened and claimed her mother’s life. She understood Papa’s pain.
Melissa wiped a stray tear from her cheek with the back of her hand—not much longer until she discovered her fate, but the minutes crawled.
In her circumscribed life, she’d met not one potential mate. Not one. If only there’d been an opportunity, love’s potential may have flowered and taken its natural course. But her father would not wait or waver. When he planned, he succeeded.
Might he not yet allow her to find, or be found by a prospective suitor on her own? But she must admit she knew not where. She’d met Lord Russell under such odd circumstances. Besides, that almost-opportunity lay in the past. With him busy establishing himself in a new life at his estate and her called home to London, the chance of encountering him again was negligible. Even if he came to town, she’d never cross his path.
It seemed near impossible to meet anyone suitable to both her and her father. The clock struck three, and she stopped to primp in the mirror for the important appointment. Her dress of frothy white muslin, sprigged with green, featured a band under the bust with apple-green velvet ribbon—one delicious concoction out of a wardrobe full of gorgeous dresses. After a last critical glance in the mirror, she lifted her chin in resolve and marched to the door.
Muted chimes sounded from the hall clock as she slipped into Papa’s study and approached his desk with a respectful smile. In no position of power, her best strategy was to try to avoid being forced into anything regrettable.
“Papa, before we begin, may I touch on two matters of importance to me?”
He pulled out his watch, flicked it open, and answered, “Yes, daughter. What matters?” He came around the ornate desk and laid his hands on her shoulders. “My, oh my, you do remind me of your mother. You’re so grown up now.” He kissed her forehead, and then steered her to a large armchair.
She sat, and before courage failed, she blurted her first request. “I’d like to hire a companion.”
His answer held great influence on the course of her life. Her father fiddled with a pen, eyes down, as if he were hiding their expression from her. The glossy surface of the desk between them stretched like an impassable gulf.
“Papa? I assume you would be amenable to me hiring someone?”
He sighed, as if returning from faraway thoughts. He tented his fingers. “Yes, you may contact the agency tomorrow. I approve of you hiring a companion. You’ll need a chaperone while courting.”
“Courting? Courted by whom?” Though she suspected such, the words caught her by surprise. “Wait, don’t answer. This touches on my second point. I’d like a say on the type of man I believe best for me.”
With a wry chuckle and quite cheerfully, Papa reached into the top drawer and took out one sheet of paper which he held up. His shrewd brown gaze met hers over it. “Quaint that you and I both require certain qualities for your suitor, my dear.”
Her stomach clenched. She formed the words she’d rehearsed, and rushed into the main thrust of her request. “My highest priority is to marry a believer.” Nerves clamped her mouth shut, and she scuttled the entire remainder of the lengthy preamble prepared during her brooding.
A scowl formed on his face. “Daughter, faith is not high at all on my priority list. My top standard for a suitable husband lays in his aristocrat lineage. I want you to become a titled lady. Your refinement lacks nothing other than a title, and I aim to obtain one for you before the year is out.”
“Papa, I don’t possess any way to gain entrance into the world of the haute ton. No avenue even exists for me, as a merchant’s daughter, to meet a titled suitor, no matter how long you’ve dreamt this for me.” She regretted the sting of her words. Outrage wouldn’t do her case any good.
“This piece of paper tells a different story.” He brandished the sheet, waving it at her. “Through confidential channels, an aristocrat who is amenable to wed someone of our status has been identified.”
Her father stared across the desk at her. The leashed power of his personality made her quake. She clenched her fists in her lap. “Channels? What? Am I to be dealt out to a man I’ve never met?”
“No, no. You will, of course, meet the chosen candidate. The first one I deem worthy is Lord Peter Winstead, a marquis. Additional research is to be performed before you are introduced.” He leaned back in his chair.
“I shudder to think what you’ve done to locate this man. I’d rather not find a husband through research.”
“Since, as you say, you possess no better alternative to obtain a husband, therefore, no choice, I shall do right by you. Don’t worry, Missy.”
Wounded by her father’s insensitive plan, it took all she the strength could muster not to cry as she’d done in her younger years. She needed every ounce of self-control to respond to her father. Speaking with a soft, measured voice, she tried a humble approach. “Papa, I hope you are sure. For to me it sounds havey-cavey. Not at all tonnish.”
Could fear of societal scorn shake his certainty? Let her remark hit home.
“Been told firsthand that such arrangements are often done among the haute ton, and you needn’t worry. I picked a fine young man.” He placed the paper on the desk and lined up the edges with precision.
Not only did her father’s enthusiasm for his plan not wane, he exuded a hearty, confident ambition, and purpose. He refused to bend to her basic opposition to his plot. To reach his goal of joining the aristocracy via her marriage, he’d let nothing stand in his way.
Her father’s determination and her convictions stood in conflict with a probable clash on the horizon. In the shadow of the slim likelihood of getting her way, her other problems paled.
She rose, her clenched hands hidden in the folds of her skirt. “Is that all for now, Papa? I’m late for a dress fitting.”
“By all means, you may go now, dear. Make sure to select some elegant new styles to impress your future husband.”
Returning to her suite, it hit her. God’s plan required her to obey her father, except unto sin, and honor him. She should not—could not—reject the scheme. At least courting might lift some of the boredom of the endless, quiet days she’d faced since Miss Cleaver’s dismissal. And Papa approved the hiring of a companion.
She penned a quick note to the hiring agency. The sooner she began the interviews, the sooner relief from lonely tedium. Lord willing, she would find a woman to provide true companionship.
Fingers pressing her brow, she tried to rub out the knowledge of her father’s strategy. But her thoughts flew on ahead, wildly ranging from acceptance to fantasy.
If only the man her father put forward were a believer. She must make peace with the baldly calculated nature of her father’s plan.
Her habitual optimism took flight, and she imagined scenarios of how learning whether the candidate would suit. Perhaps she’d catch a glimpse of the man praying, or he’d discuss a sermon, or ask her for her favorite verse.
A muffled knock intruded on her reverie. Expecting the seamstress, she rose from her tufted satin chair to respond
. “Entre!”
The popular modiste, Madame Olivier, sailed through the door and set down her workbasket. Of indeterminate age, she wore all black with eyes and hair to match. Full of vitality, her vivid personality belied the color. Her eyes snapped and sparkled.
She creaked down into a curtsey. “Bonjour, Mademoiselle Southwood!” Her exuberant voice bordered on a chortle.
Melissa held out one hand. “Bonjour, Madame Olivier.”
Madame Olivier took the fingers and gave a tentative squeeze combined with the smallest shake.
Another knock on the door, and three footmen entered. They deposited at least thirty bolts of fabric on a large table in the sizeable private sitting room next to her bedroom.
“Enchanté! We shall select fabric here, non? And do the fittings here in your suite as well, if that’s acceptable?” The modiste stopped speaking and riffled through the bolts waiting for Melissa’s assent.
“That is the plan. The sewing, however, will be done at your salon as usual.” Melissa moved to the table and fingered the edge of a bolt of green silk.
“Have you zee sketches this time?”
“I do, Madame Olivier. We will refer to them later.”
The modiste clapped her gloved hands. “Bon. Your designs rival zee best.”
“I’ve decided I’ll need morning and afternoon dresses, four evening gowns, and a ball gown.” Melissa ran her fingers down the stack of fabrics.
“Oui, oui. Merci, Mademoiselle Southwood.” The seamstress rubbed one hand over the other, pleased at the large order to come.
Many of the best French modistes were plain Englishwomen. These harmless imposters put on French airs to gain cachet. Though Melissa possessed superior schoolroom French, far be it from her to snicker at Madame Olivier’s efforts. The woman’s talent and business acumen caused her rise to the pinnacle of London’s dressmakers. Pretend-French or not, she was superior.
At the table, Madame Olivier helped Melissa narrow the choices, often referring to Melissa’s sketchbook or to pictures in La Belle Assemblee to develop ideas. Adding touches to the latest styles, she enjoyed the process.
“Let’s begin with the ball gown. Creamy white crepe suits me. Bodice and sleeves of matched satin. A train, I think, not too long, and laurel leaves embroidered down the front of the skirt.”
“Oui, oui.” Madame Olivier concentrated to keep up with the flow of instructions.
“Embroidery silk the same color as the cloth, but entwined with a bit of gold thread and touched with seed pearls.”
“Yes, tres bien.”
Melissa pointed to an illustration. “One last thing. Do a square neckline like this but two inches higher.” She made this point clear, since in the past she’d battled Madame Olivier, who thought it wise for a woman to display her wares.
Vanquished, the woman merely nodded her assent.
In addition to the creamy white ball gown, she also selected fabrics for evening gowns. One of palest pink taffeta trimmed with satin rosebuds, one of white silk sprigged with green and accented with black velvet ribbon and white Van Dyke lace, another of ivory muslin figured with gold, and an exquisite gown of pale blue with a white lace overskirt.
She loved deciding the details for each gown. Her hobby of sketching and designing frocks gave her mental escape from her father’s machinations. She chose a crisp neck ruff called a Betsie to add to one ensemble. For others, she selected stoles, capes, shawls, pelisses, spencer jackets, or fichus. Swatches of each chosen fabric were set aside to match against fans, slippers and reticules to be purchased later at shops in London’s warehouse district.
“I love zee suggestions, Mademoiselle Southwood. The dresses will be c’est belle.”
Pleased that Madame not only accepted her participation but respected her ideas, she returned a compliment. “Your gowns are always superb and so appropriate. No other modiste approaches your skill with fitting or your flair with style.”
Throughout the enjoyable morning, a thread of worry lurked at the back of Melissa’s mind. What if Papa’s plan became a public embarrassment? As to the timing, she must insist on two months to decide. Also, what if her father rushed in with a second-choice man if she refused the first? So many things to go wrong. She didn’t care about the season, but the aristocrats fled to the countryside and absented themselves from London as soon as the season ended. What dregs would be left?
Selecting a large number of dresses required several appointments spread over a week. By the time she was done, she’d ordered twenty ensembles, including the evening gowns and ball gown.
~*~
At the end of the week, Melissa requested the preparation of a food parcel for the seamstress. The kitchen servants filled it with sausages, pies, cheese, and other nutritious comestibles for the woman to take back to the workroom.
As Madame Olivier departed, Melissa herself handed over the basket. “A petite something for the salon seamstresses.”
“Merci, Mademoiselle Southwood. I shall have all the ensembles to you within zee month.” Madame Olivier promised. Footmen carried out the bolts of fabric, but the modiste carried the basket herself, face wreathed in smiles as she bid Melissa adieu.
As much as Melissa enjoyed choosing fabrics and trim and adding to her wardrobe, a swell of relief at the selection process’s completion swept over her. Enough time still would be spent in fittings—those weren’t as enjoyable. Though fashion would always be one of her favorite hobbies, charity and service met her yearning for true meaning. So she turned her thoughts to the future days she’d have time to get to her charity work, of helping feed the hungry.
How long would it take for her father’s plans to progress? Even though his outlandish approach offended her own sensibilities and spirit, he always kept her best interests at heart. He possessed a knack of receiving what God gave and turning it to a profit as well. No choice but to trust Papa and still hope in God.
After dinner on a tray, and reading, she closed her eyes on another day. She thanked God for upholding her even in this uncertainty about the man who would soon court her. After saying ‘amen,’ the image of Lord Russell entered her mind. Their few short hours together often danced through her dreams. She’d love the opportunity to see him again if the chance ever arose.
10
Time flew by for Mark during another week of learning to manage the estate. Speeding hours didn’t stop the hourly lowering of his mood. A rap came on the study door.
Crabtree stuck his head through the crack, interrupting Mark’s glazed-over scrutiny of the tally of grain sacks delivered by the carter. “Sir, Mr. Cleaver’s calling.”
“Send him in here, please, and bring some tea.”
Mr. Cleaver entered the room, and his booming voice came as a shock after the excess of quiet. “How do you fare this fine Saturday, Lord Russell?”
“Enjoying my new life.” Mark closed the account books and came around the desk to shake hands. He sat on one of a pair of armchairs and faced the minister who’d sat in the other.
“I perceive you’re back to a full measure of health, praise the Lord.”
Mark’s hands clenched involuntarily. “I am well.”
As Mr. Cleaver chatted about neighborhood news, Mark relaxed, deciding no hidden agenda was in play. The minister’s next words, however, shot that idea out of the water.
“Are you familiar with God’s Word?”
“Only enough to pass my exams. That was like being force-fed medicine.”
“How sad. So many scriptures give us direct inspiration.” Mr. Cleaver held up a finger for emphasis. “And are able to change our lives. In fact, there’s an important passage from the Bible I’d like to share with you today.”
Mark sat back and gripped the arms of the chair. “I’m all ears. After all you’ve done for me, the least I can do is listen.”
Mr. Cleaver cleared his throat. “That if thou shalt confess with thy mouth the Lord Jesus, and shalt believe in thine heart that God hath rais
ed him from the dead, thou shalt be saved. For with the heart man believeth unto righteousness; and with the mouth confession is made unto salvation. For the scripture saith, Whosoever believeth on him shall not be ashamed.”
“Unashamed.” Mark murmured the words to himself. Incidents from the recent past flashed into his mind. His wild London life wasn’t suitable to bring out into the light of day. Alcohol, cheap women, buying on credit, and living in a set of rooms well-known as a place of lewd revelry didn’t reflect well on his character.
“Where is that found in the Bible?”
“In the book of Romans, written by the Apostle Paul.”
“Do I really need this? After all, what do God’s words mean in my life?”
“God’s Word is always useful, and it is the Truth. All I ask is that you think about it.”
He assented with reluctance. What would it be like to rid himself of the shame that clung to him after the way he lived in London? How else could he aspire to filling his dead brother’s honorable shoes? Unwanted emotions plagued him of late. He contained, with difficulty, more sentiments now welling. “That isn’t for the likes of me.” He lowered his eyes. His chin quivered, and he swept his hand over his jaw to conceal his weakness.
The minister pushed on, unrelenting. “I beg to differ. God’s kindness is for all who have been given the gift of faith. God’s Word says, ‘For by grace are ye saved through faith, and that not of yourselves, it is the gift of God, not of works lest any man should boast.’ Lord Russell, all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God. Everyone. If we confess our sins, God is faithful and just to forgive us our sins and cleanse us from all unrighteousness.”
“From the Bible, too? Or your personal philosophies?” Mark suspected the answer but perversely insisted on asking.
A Match for Melissa Page 6
