The other man, mature but wearing tight pantaloons, piped up. “There are fine odds about whether you’ll step into parson’s mousetrap with the Southwood chit.”
Surprised his lady friend’s name was already public, Peter raised his eyebrows in feigned nonchalance but clenched his fists behind his back to put a rein on his temper. “It fascinates me that some don’t pursue more worthwhile things.”
He did not savor being the subject of any gossip, but he’d remain civil. The less said, the better. “I can only hope to win her favor and her heart.” He pasted a smile on his face and brushed past the men, heading for the door. Why must these buffoons mix into his affairs?
Before he made his exit, another ‘friend’ stopped him. “Say, you’ve finally found a young lady willing to ignore your sad lack of funds? Leg-shackled to a merchant’s daughter. Never thought I’d see the day.” The man, not even a close associate, snorted a laugh, which held the clear tone of insult.
“So you say. Good day.” Winstead steeled himself not to answer this rude sally with violence, moved past the offensive man, collected his hat and cane from a footman, and then departed the club, sorry he’d even gone there.
To shield Miss Southwood from wicked tongues, as well as to protect his own suit, he avoided any future interactions with the bon ton. On subsequent carriage drives with her, he eschewed the fashionable hour and kept up a fast enough clip to avoid any stops to chat with nosy acquaintances.
She was a sweet girl. No angling for operas, plays, or parties. He escorted his intended instead on excursions to the Tower, to Astley’s Circus, and several times to the famous Gunter’s for ices. On most other days, he took her driving. A nod, a smile, and a lift of a hand or hat served to deflect the curiosity of the meddlesome tabbies of the ton.
~*~
He invited the Southwoods to visit Honor’s Point, his ancestral home. The ambitious two-day journey might tax his resources, but he counted on the estate’s renowned beauty to help win the young lady’s assent. The Southwoods and Miss Dean rode in the family’s traveling carriage with Peter on horseback alongside. As they neared the estate, his heart beat faster, the old familiar spell again cast over him as the group traveled roads which ascended through dense woods before emerging on the elm-lined drive to Honor’s Point. The massive trees formed an arch overhead and framed the first view of his beloved hilltop manor. Pride welled as he imagined the good impression made by the house’s balanced façade of mellow stone and twin, arched exterior stairs leading to a massive front door.
Several nights into the visit, he found himself alone on the terrace with Miss Southwood at twilight. The group wandered out through a set of French doors, and Mr. Southwood and Miss Dean stood about twenty-five feet away. Miss Dean’s eagle eyes were on him, but he would bet a Yellowboy neither could hear him.
“Do you see why I love this place?” Peter asked quietly and seized the moment to grasp and loosely hold Miss Southwood’s hand.
She didn’t pull away, and her answer gave him hope. “It is the finest property I’ve ever had the privilege of visiting. I plan to take my paints and easel out tomorrow.”
“You paint?” He put as much interested rapture into his voice as he thought he could get away with. He’d watch her paint for hours if it would make her want to marry him.
“I dabble. To capture this exquisite place on canvas shall be an enjoyable challenge for my paltry skills.”
“Since you like the place, can you envision yourself as its mistress?” Peter stroked her hand with his thumb as he spoke and stared into her eyes.
She withdrew her hand from his. She intertwined her own fingers and began to wring them. “Liking it here doesn’t equal wanting to be its mistress. I don’t dislike the idea, but for now, I shall hold the possibilities in abeyance, if you don’t mind.”
Struggling to keep his face calm, Peter responded with all the lightness he could muster. “And I’ll hold the possibilities close to my heart.” He placed his lightly-clenched fist against his breast and gave her a rueful smile. Taking her elbow, he guided her indoors, chatting about the features of the house.
The trip bore ambiguous results. Back in London after the visit, Peter didn’t try to deceive himself or her. True love had not been found. He liked Miss Southwood, didn’t object to her person, and indeed, he admired her the more he learned about her throughout his determined courtship. Yet, he cared for her as he would for a sister. He’d always expected to conceive a grand passion for a marriageable miss before pursuing matrimony. In his heart, he admitted the ineffable missing piece of his relationship with Melissa was the spark romantic love gives a courting couple. But I’ll give that up to save Honor’s Point. And I will be good to her.
Since his financial needs were no secret to her, putting on the pretense of love was beneath him, and he’d not sink to pretending. He refused to play his hand as if he loved her and didn’t think she’d believe it anyway. No, she’d been aware from the start he was at low financial tide, and she accepted the courtship because her father had ambitions for her to marry a title. For a father to select a spouse for his child was common enough in high society.
~*~
Though lonely and quiet, Mark’s days went well in the weeks after his watershed experience with Mr. Cleaver. The manor ran without many problems because James, the prior Lord Russell, had been a fine landowner and left matters in good order. Mark didn’t have to sort out James’s family affairs, either. His widow liked Russell Manor well enough while her husband lived, of course, but she’d always been attached to her childhood home. Soon after James’s passing, Lady Russell removed with her three daughters, eager to rejoin her aged parents at their family home. She desired to live her widowhood with reduced responsibilities and made an amicable departure prior to his arrival in Russelton.
No dishonest steward, no thieving housekeeper, or devious butler complicated his new routine. In fact, most of the staff belonged to Reverend Cleaver’s flock—sincere, kind people. The whole estate, inside and out, held an atmosphere and tone of pleasant harmony—a balm to Mark’s newly-healed soul and spirit.
Ensconced in a sumptuous tufted leather armchair, he ruminated over the change in his circumstances. The hush of the manor’s richly-appointed library suited deep thinking, and he absently jiggled a fob on his watch chain. Since he’d recovered from the attack, his new, sober, and happily virtuous life fit him well. He now understood how God used the attack to get his attention and bring him to a place of spiritual need—a place where he would listen. Gratefulness overwhelmed him.
Entrenched as the new lord of the manor at Russell House, he had to stop and shake himself. The good life he now possessed provided a strong contrast to how he lived little more than one month ago. He fought back guilt about how his blessings came upon the tail of the death of his elder brother.
He reminded himself that an accident took his brother’s life, and not him.
At the library’s French doors, he pushed the velvet curtain aside. His gaze fell upon the beautiful lawn stretching out toward a lake. The vivid greens of spring beckoned him, and he stepped through the doors out onto the terrace.
A few dozen long strides took him to the lawn, and he walked to a nearby clump of trees. Under them, placed to catch the afternoon shade, stood a stone bench with a choice of views. Its placement took in the beautiful lake or the impressive manor.
He flicked out the tails of his coat, and then plunked down, facing the house. The warm, mellow stone mansion glowed in the sunlight. Sparkly panes winked, and the brick facing trim around the many windows lent a jaunty air to its façade.
For all its charm and roominess, it was a lonesome place.
It needed a family.
He shot up off the bench and paced. Where did that thought come from?
The future of marriage, wife, children, and a family of his own never burst upon his consciousness in the past. Yearnings for domesticity took him aback. His bright new life was unsull
ied by his former immorality, committed to the straight and narrow. But, out of nowhere it occurred to him no obstacle prevented him from setting up his nursery. He’d need an heir, so why not think about finding a bride?
Elbows on knees, he stroked his chin, deep in thought. His responsibility to the estate required him to provide an heir, and as soon as possible. If he took part in the London season and searched about for a wife, the timing might work. He calculated he would be out of mourning and able to be married two months after the end of the season. The urgency for an heir excused the lack of a lengthier mourning.
A nearby statue of a cherub appeared to rise out of a sea of rosebushes. A flash of memory intruded. He pleasantly remembered how she bent over him, touching his shoulder, and gave him water. She was a pure and kind young woman. The sweet recollection reminded him of how much she’d seemed like a ministering angel. Could one fall in love with such a paragon? One met while half-conscious and in a fog of pain?
He snapped back to practical details. The proprieties of mourning of course. With his changed life, travel and disruption didn’t appeal to him. But urgent anxiety nagged him. An anxiety that pulsed as though, if he didn’t get there soon—he might miss something—or someone important.
London. I must go to London.
14
“Crabtree!” Mark called as he broke into a trot. He entered the same way he’d come out and hurried past his desk, out into the hall where the butler dozed on a padded seat near the front door.
“Crabtree, see me in the library post haste.”
He turned back and re-entered the library. He stood behind the desk, waiting for Crabtree to shuffle in. The hushed, yet expectant atmosphere of this room inspired him to action. He shuffled through the stack of mail, attention arrested by an envelope with the address in feminine, loopy script. He opened it and read.
“… and so, nephew, I implore you to visit me this spring. I will prepare a room for you and keep all your favorite foods on hand. I await your answer. Love, Aunt Lucy”
A visit to his aunt was the answer. He’d accept his aunt’s invitation. His favorite relative, she was a socialite widow who resided in London. The middle-aged widow’s full entrée to the ton world abetted his plans. He’d be included in her invitations, and she’d facilitate introductions, since Mark, in the past, always avoided the circles in which marriageable young ladies moved.
He set down the letter and tapped his foot in impatience. Now that he’d decided on a course of action, he was eager to commence. Spring and early summer in London provided the setting for the marriage mart. This year’s season was already in full swing, and he didn’t want to wait to find a wife. He’d take assertive measures amidst the London season, and at least attempt to solve his loneliness and need for an heir.
Mark was glad the social functions of upper crust society revolved solely around the business of matching young ladies and gentlemen, now that he was on the hunt for a wife. Properties and bloodlines were allied, and the occasional love match occurred as well.
A creak from a floorboard broke into his musings. “Crabtree, pack for the season in London. I will leave in two days, assuming you can get the bags packed in time?”
“Yes, m’lord. What are your requirements as for vehicle?”
“My best traveling carriage.”
Crabtree bowed and left the library, rushing off to begin the master’s travel preparations.
He wrote his aunt in London. Next, he sent for the steward. Mark gave instructions for several current projects and for the estimated duration of his absence.
The meeting with the steward complete, Mark knew what to do next.
He bowed his head, folded his hands, and bent over the oak desk to lay his concerns before God. Mr. Cleaver impressed upon him how the Christian life involved calling upon God’s wisdom for one’s life decisions.
“Father in Heaven, thank You for my new life. I don’t deserve any of this, but please bless my wife-seeking. I implore You to guide me to the right young lady. And, Lord, please give me safe travel this time. I even thank You for my last trip when I was attacked and robbed, because I now believe that all things do work together for good. Amen.”
Ready to move forward with his life, peace settled over him leaving him refreshed. For two days, he visited tenants and checked on a few projects on the estate.
Mark departed the manor after luncheon on the second day and joined the coachman on the seat, eager to take the reins for the first leg of the journey. He’d drive part of the sixty-mile distance to London.
But first, a stop at the vicarage to say good-bye.
Mr. Cleaver emerged from the front door as the carriage pulled to a stop in front of the dwelling.
Mark hopped down and grabbed Mr. Cleaver’s hand for a good, firm shake. The men shared spiritual kinship, but even that didn’t permit any but stoic and masculine farewells.
“I am, ahem, eternally grateful for all you’ve done.” Mark’s sincerity laced every word. He schooled his features to fight back emotion. “I shall depend on your prayers and call on your advice if any spiritual matters arise. For now, I bid you farewell.” He mounted the bench and drove toward his future.
The rhythm of the horses soothed him, and he mulled over the qualities he desired in a wife. First, she must share his faith in God. Several additional traits rose up in his mind as he covered the miles and daydreamed about his future bride, whoever she may be. He’d want her to have good character, beauty, personality, and health.
He’d come across an extraordinary verse that very morning, “If any of you lacks wisdom, he should ask of God, Who gives generously to all.” He repeated it to himself now and let the promise sink into his being. He wanted wisdom more than anything.
He planned to use discretion in the choice of a wife when he arrived in London. Even though he’d been a believer for a short time, he already grasped how specifics sometimes had to be left in God’s hands. A vision of the angelic blonde from the vicarage entered his mind. Would that he’d find someone like her, or even the angel herself. If only that were possible.
~*~
“Lord Russell. What a pleasant surprise.” His widowed aunt sat near the fireplace in her comfortable sitting room.
Mark crossed the room in a few long strides. “Dear Aunt.” Happy to see his favorite relative, he bowed over her hand. He straightened up and pulled her into a gentle embrace. “Now give me a proper hug.”
Aunt Lucy gave him a playful smack on the arm with her fan. “Let me go, you young pup!” The lighthearted interaction reminded him why he loved her.
“Do be seated.” He settled into an armchair covered in yellow striped silk. “So glad you’re here as the time of your arrival was anybody’s guess.” She raised her brows in mock reproach. “Will you bide here at my house as invited?”
“I decided to stay at the club, but I shall be in your pocket.” He reassured her of his intentions to spend time with her.
An assessing expression covered his aunt’s face. She looked him up and down as if she sensed a difference. She, however, hadn’t changed. Around her mid-forties, she was still an attractive woman bedecked with a kindhearted air.
She gave him another tap with her fan. “Dear boy, you staying at your club’s quite all right. Now catch me up with all that’s transpired since you inherited the title and headed home to Russelton.”
“Certainly. You’re in for a tale.” Mark regaled her with an account of the attack on the road outside Russelton.
“My boy!” Her soft voice rose to a squawk and she clutched her chest. “Were you targeted? How scandalous for a robbery to occur on your ancestral doorstep, so to speak.”
“It appeared to be a random attack. The magistrate is on high alert and has swept the area several times, vigilant for strangers. He’s come up empty thus far. I hope they catch the scoundrels before anyone else has to suffer what I did.”
He brought her up to date with his move to the manor and assuming
the title. “It’s all well and good to inherit a fine estate, but dash it all, it’s a sore spot with me that my brother had to die for me to gain this blessing. There’s more to tell, however, about what transpired after my descent into the ditch.”
“More than gaining a title and being robbed? I must have some more tea. Would you care for a cup?” Aunt Lucy poured a cup of hot tea for him from the pot at hand, before topping off her own cup. She held his cup out toward him. “There. Go on.”
Mark took a sip of the fragrant lemon spice tea and gathered his thoughts. “Aunt, I wouldn’t be honest if I didn’t include the fact I have been renewed not only in health but also in my faith.”
Her cup clattered into its saucer. “Your faith?”
“Why so baffled and surprised?” He carefully set down his own cup. “After the attack, I began to understand I needed a change in my life. And God worked faith in my heart. He changed me. Prior to that, I lived my life on a direct path to destruction and in a state of spiritual death.” Pausing, he gave her a chance to take it in. He hoped she understood. Not ashamed of his beliefs, that didn’t mean he was used to conversing about them.
“I approve with my whole heart.” Aunt Lucy tapped her fingers in the region of her heart and arched her brows. “You do seem much happier. I must admit I am quite pleasantly taken by surprise.”
She took another sip of tea and fell silent. Relieved with her favorable response, Mark wondered what more she would say about his revelations. He waited for her next words.
“My boy, I am glad for you. Many of your scrapes reached my ears. Yes, numerous were the tales that came my way.” She raised her brows again and gave him a rueful smile. “If faith in God can help you to lead a happy and upright life, I’m pleased for you. You won’t find any criticism from this quarter.”
“Thank you, Aunt Lucy. You are one of the few I’ve told.”
A Match for Melissa Page 8
