A Match for Melissa

by Susan Karsten

  Waiting for the dancers to assemble and the music to start, Mark made a request. “At some point tonight, I’d like you to mingle with the Southwoods in order to strike up a friendship with Miss Southwood,” he spoke quickly.

  “Yes, my boy, as we planned. After the second dance, take me over to them, and I will do my best to befriend her.”

  “Good, that’s when I’ll obtain the first of the two dances she promised me the other day at the charity kitchen.”

  ~*~

  Swirling around the floor, Melissa sought out glimpses of Lord Russell. She wasn’t sure, but she sensed he watched her, too. She considered him a friend of sorts, more than she could say about anyone else there. She told herself it was natural to watch for him; he served as a sort of anchor in the unfamiliar setting.

  Acclimating to the dance steps, she wondered how a merchant’s daughter would be accepted—invited guest notwithstanding. While whirling from one partner to another, she spotted a few acquaintances from her academy days. As yet, none of those young ladies made their way over to her. This didn’t surprise her. She was used to their excluding ways, and thus unsure of their acceptance.

  The first dance over, Lord Winstead promenaded her back toward where Papa stood by the edge of the floor. “My dear, may I take you for a drive tomorrow afternoon?”

  “I see no reason why not.” She fiddled with the fan dangling from her wrist.

  “Excellent, I’ll come by at three. Would you like some lemonade or ratafia?”

  “Lemonade sounds nice.”

  He seated her and departed to get some lemonade. Papa stood at her side, and the cluster of young men closed in again, clamoring for her attention. She put her fan to work and fielded their attentions as best she could.

  The small crowd of admirers made an opening for a dark-haired young lady to approach with two gloved hands extended. “Melissa Southwood! Could it be you?”

  Melissa grasped the proffered hands. “Miss Cabot, what a pleasant surprise.” Here was her only real friend from the academy days. Melissa tried not to cling to Rosanna Cabot like a life-line. This extension of friendship rescued Melissa from potential social awkwardness.

  All worries to that end evaporated with the rush of pleasure meeting a friend after a long dearth.

  Rosanna began to chatter as if she’d parted from Melissa yesterday. “You must call on me. I own we can share some amusing insights about the marriage mart.” Rosanna gave a cynical eyebrow lift along with a rueful smile.

  “No doubt.” She might have at least one or two stories to tell. Stories for which she didn’t yet know the endings.

  ~*~

  Mark deposited his aunt on a gilded chair before summoning a waiter to attend her. Not wanting her to be without at least a small crowd around her, he waited until several of her closest friends had moved into position near the popular hostess.

  Spotting Lord Armbruster and Sir Walsh, he bowed to his aunt, promised to return, and sauntered over to the two men.

  “Evening, gents. How are you enjoying my aunt’s soirée?”

  “I say, came here as a favor, but I’m glad I did!” Armbruster boomed his enthusiasm, held his glass up in the general direction of Miss Southwood, and gave a cagey grin. “A glimpse of that dazzler is worth all the trouble!”

  “Here, here,” Walsh added. “I concur. If I’d gotten to Miss Southwood before Winstead, stap me if I wouldn’t have stolen a march on him. By the time I met with her father, it was too late.”

  “Indeed. As I recall, I first learned about their courtship from both of you at the club, did I not?”

  “Sounds right. Can’t rightly remember the exact details.” Armbruster’s drink sloshed over the rim with each broad gesture.

  Leading the two sociable, harmless gentlemen into his benign clutches, Mark continued with a few chosen statements. He wanted to ensure Miss Southwood’s popularity. The dear young woman deserved her moment in the sun.

  “Either of you fellows secured a dance with the marvelous Miss Southwood yet? Her father aspiring to a title, it wouldn’t hurt to be in line, so to speak, if Winstead doesn’t go the distance.” As he spoke this fustian, a stab of possessiveness flared, but hope spurred him on with his plotting.

  Lord Armbruster eyes reflected a hectic glitter. “What? Is there some doubt he will step into parson’s mousetrap? I thought I smelled April and May, and I have laid my wagers. Although I don’t believe there’s been any announcement.”

  Adjusting lavish cuffs, Sir Walsh chimed in next. “I shall sign her dance card and make every attempt to position myself favorably with her. Even if I have only a slim chance.”

  Armbruster, transfixed, stared at Melissa as she whirled by. “Hmm, she’s a beauty for the ages. I shall write a poem about her.”

  Walsh tried to top his crony. “If I’d known of her exquisiteness, it wouldn’t have taken any fortune for me to throw my hat in the ring. Now I’ll write an epic ode to her beauty.”

  “Well, fellows, make Miss Southwood and her father welcome in society tonight, for I am sure that is her father’s dearest wish. Can’t hurt to be in his good graces.”

  “Russell, your benevolence is suspicious, but you were never a dull dog with the ladies.”

  “Benevolent or not, Sir Walsh, any single man with sense has got to be ruing the day he didn’t beat Winstead to the punch.” Speaking of his beloved to these two left him wanting to plug his nose, but he needed to assure her popularity with the ton. Otherwise, he wouldn’t want them anywhere near her.

  They were malleable, however, and might help his plan. If the Lord blessed him with success. If Mr. Southwood felt he had a place in the ton, he’d potentially drop his plot to marry his daughter off in order to jump the counter. Perhaps allow her a more natural course to wedded bliss.

  After a few additional moments of desultory conversation with the two men, Mark moved on. Satisfied, he noted a small crowd around Melissa, and numerous men jockeying for position around the fringe.

  Sweeping up to Aunt Lucy, he invited her to promenade with him. He maneuvered right over to the cluster of sprigs of the ton. The group parted ranks, creating a path for Mark and Lucy to approach Miss Southwood. Her father, who stood off to one side of his daughter, looked a bit overwhelmed.

  Mark chatted with Mr. Southwood to help make him more comfortable at his first society ball while Lucy conversed with Miss Southwood. He could hear snippets of the ladies’ talk.

  “My dear, it appears our ball gowns are similar.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Banting. Do you perhaps use a certain ’French’ seamstress as well?”

  “I do. I knew it the minute I saw the beaded fringe and laurel leaf motif. How funny. Madam Olivier is very talented. However, I won’t take her to task one bit. I only hope none of the tabbies here tonight notice our gowns’ similarities and make tittle-tattle out of it.”

  “If they do, we will say ‘Oh la’ like we planned it.”

  Aunt Lucy gave an affable titter. “Yes, let’s do.”

  Mr. Southwood droned on, and Mark nodded at the appropriate times, while he strained to hear Miss Southwood’s soft voice talk on the topic of fashion with his aunt. A hint of fragrance floated his way. Mint. Such a unique scent Miss Southwood wore. He remembered it from their fleeting times together, which seemed so long ago yet nowhere near long enough to slake his thirst to make her his own.

  The two ladies, though of disparate ages, struck up the kind of acquaintance that led to them planning to have tea two days hence. He could overhear only snippets of their happy chatter over the loud hum of the ball.

  Satisfied his aunt had secured Miss Southwood’s friendship, Mark stepped over in front of her, bowed from the waist, and then stood erect, extended his forearm in front of his chest, and requested the next dance.

  ~*~

  As Lord Russell and Miss Southwood swirled out onto the floor, Peter’s gut clenched with worry. Even though he wasn’t heart-struck by her, he admired her. He acknowledged
her loveliness as beyond that of any young lady he had ever come across, aristocrat or not. The idea of marrying for money, in reality, had turned out to be much less distasteful than he dreaded. If I can gain her assent, I’ll be in clover, in more ways than one.

  Something about the expression on her face while she danced with Lord Russell gave Peter a quiver of unease. Too dreamy for his liking. His creditors were pressing him. He’d promised them, based on his expectations, to take care of his debts soon. They were still hounding him, lest he forget his obligations.

  When he took her on a drive tomorrow, he would press his suit and ask for a firm, assenting decision. If she didn’t accept his proposal, he had another plan.

  23

  Melissa’s eyes opened hours after her normal rising, when the maid raised the blinds and set a cup of hot chocolate by the bed.

  How deep she must have dozed not to hear as her room transformed into a bower of bouquets. The custom for gentlemen to send a floral token to each dance partner of the night before made her suite resemble a flower shop.

  A sip or two of cocoa brought her more fully awake. She folded back the covers, swung her feet over the edge, and stepped into her slippers. She went over to the nearest table to examine the cards attached to the bouquets. She moved from table to dresser to mantel where she at last found what she sought.

  On a note attached to a tasteful cluster of yellow and white lilies, she read, “Russell, at your service,” written on a dashing slant. Those four words caused a thrill of delight to rise from her toes and run through her whole body. The blooms were fresh and vibrant, the arrangement tasteful, and not overblown like so many others.

  After shifting Lord Russell’s bouquet over to her bedside table, she sat on the edge of the bed, sipped chocolate, and gazed at the lilies while thinking about last evening and the two men vying for her heart. A flicker of thought to the lack of even a posy from Lord Winstead didn’t make her sad.

  The ball began favorably enough, with many a young fellow asking to sign her card. Dancing with Lord Russell had been a treat. Two dances with Lord Winstead had been in the mix, too. Had he acted a bit anxious or irritable? She didn’t want to care, and his moods had no bearing on her, but something was odd in his demeanor.

  One of the side effects of Lord Winstead only courting her for her fortune was Melissa’s dismissal of any responsibility for his moods or emotions. It might have been better if Papa had kept his machinations a secret. Nevertheless, as a Christian, she wouldn’t hurt him on purpose, but she didn’t owe him anything. Certainly not to coddle his sensibilities.

  He had been pleasant enough, however, and not offensive in any way. Why did only apathy arise in her heart when she thought of marrying him? She’d given herself time to care for him. She hadn’t purposely held back from loving him. She shouldn’t feel guilty. Oh, Papa—it’s all your doing.

  She stifled a yawn, rose to her feet, and searched again through the array of bouquets until she found an offering from Lord Winstead. There, overwhelmed behind a lavish cluster of roses, stood one lone white carnation with a card stating his name.

  Not inspiring at all. Oh, well, she’d feel worse if he’d spent more coins on her. Perhaps she’d bring up the courtship on their drive today, and she’d lay the groundwork for letting him down easy. Surely her father would support her. After all, Papa granted her the extra month. A month in which the engagement was not yet written in stone.

  She bathed, and then with her maid’s help, dressed in a blue carriage dress with matching spencer. She dismissed the maid, deciding to do her own hair. While she brushed, coiled, and pinned, the longing for it to be Lord Russell courting her welled in her bosom. Why couldn’t it be him who’d knock on the front door any minute now? Wouldn’t it be fun if he took her on a drive today instead of Lord Winstead?

  A housemaid entered to retrieve Melissa’s cup. “Please take the bouquets to the drawing room. The scent is too much for a bedroom. Besides, my nose is starting to itch.”

  The maid put a few vases on the tray with her cup, and started to remove Lord Russell’s flowers from the bedside table.

  “Oh no, not those. Those I’ll keep.” Melissa went downstairs to wait for Lord Winstead and found Miss Dean seated in the morning room.

  “Melissa, don’t come near. I’ve got a sniffle.” The woman’s red nose and watery eyes revealed less than robust health.

  “Oh dear, Miss Dean. You poor thing. Please take yourself off to bed. The weather’s fine. Lord Winstead and I will travel in an open carriage to satisfy the proprieties.”

  Miss Dean gathered her knitting and shuffled away, sneezing.

  Lunch arrived on a tray. Melissa nibbled sparingly, having little appetite, and occupied herself with needlework until the time came for her arranged ride with Lord Winstead.

  As she waited, she practiced saying some phrases she could use to end the courtship. How about, “Lord Winstead, I believe I must decline your suit.’ Or, ‘Surely you’ll find a true love someday.”

  She wondered how firm Winstead’s determination was to marry her. Would his reaction be gracious? Angry? Would he beg or cry? Shaking her head, she willed herself not to worry about Lord Winstead. After all, he was a man, and men were supposed to be strong, not given to excesses of emotions.

  Soon, a summons came, and in the front hall, a maid waited with Melissa’s light carriage cloak, gloves, bonnet, and reticule.

  Lord Winstead rose from a side chair, and then held out his arm for her, never quite making eye contact. “Shall we?”

  She murmured an assent and laid a hand on his sleeve to aid her descent of the steps toward the waiting carriage in which they would take their typical afternoon ride.

  His distracted air set her nerves on edge and made her even more nervous about what she had in mind for him.

  ~*~

  That same morning, Mr. Homer Southwood lay abed quite late. This infrequent happening stymied his valet. The man tiptoed into the room to see if the master was awake.

  “Get me some coffee and a roll, or whatever is handy. You’re not used to me being out on the town for all hours at society balls.”

  Homer sank back onto his plush pillows. Scenes from the night before passed before his closed lids, including dancing, meeting members of the ton, the welcome he got from Mrs. Lucy Banting, and the sublime dance he shared with her.

  He chided himself for acting like a young fool with his head turned. But a daydream of her returned within moments. Had her greeting held a hint of genuine warmth, or had her tone actually sounded perfunctory? He wasn’t repulsive to women, after all. No. Several wealthy merchants’ widows had set their caps at him, not to mention the numerous spinsters who cast out lures.

  Chastising himself again for his silliness, he pondered the problem of Melissa and Lord Winstead. If only Melissa had taken a real shine to the poor but handsome fellow. Then Homer wouldn’t bear as much guilt about pressuring her into matrimony. Too bad Lord Russell appeared too late in the process. Such a good chap and not snobbish at all. He’d have been an even better catch, but Homer was a man of his word, and he gave Lord Winstead permission to court Melissa.

  Suppressing a niggle of remorse, he grabbed the bell pull. Where was that deuced valet? Coffee was what he needed now. He must talk to Melissa before the end of the week and push for a happy end to the courtship. If he brought pressure to bear, Melissa’s resistance couldn’t withstand his wishes.

  24

  Mark found St. George’s sanctuary empty, common at four in the afternoon. He slipped into the third box pew to the right of the aisle. Flipping through the Book of Common Prayer, Mark turned to the back of the slim volume, scanning for an appropriate passage to read. He needed written prayers today, for his mind whirled.

  A vague urgency rotated through his consciousness. Tension coiled in the region of his heart, but with no clear sense of its meaning or what action to take. So, he’d come to this beautiful church—to its solitude, solemnity, and
musty air redolent of incense. The cool, quiet atmosphere began to soothe him. As his muscles relaxed and his breathing slowed, he pinpointed the source of his urgency.

  Miss Southwood. How to obtain her for his own?

  Slipping down onto a kneeler, he bowed his head over the open book and began to pray with some re-phrasing of the words he read.

  Almighty God, I entrust all who are dear to me, especially Miss Southwood, to Thy never-failing care and love, for this life and the life to come—knowing Thou art doing for her better things than I can desire or pray for.

  Taking bits and pieces from some other pertinent passages in the book, Mark went on:

  O Heavenly Father, I bring my perplexities to the light of Thy Wisdom. I humbly beseech Thee to bless her, now absent from me. Defend her from all dangers of soul and body—and grant that both she and I, drawing nearer to Thee, may be bound together by Thy love.

  Continuing on in spontaneity, Mark groaned as he implored God for guidance.

  Lord, I think I might love her. What should I do? Please, give me your peace.

  He went on until the world slipped away, and he stayed in one position, half kneeling, half sitting, communing with God.

  After a time in this posture, he became conscious of a shuffling noise behind him. Not wanting to be thought asleep, he straightened and glanced back over the high edge of the pew toward the rear of the sanctuary.

  Moving across the aisle behind the last row of pews and disappearing into a side chapel were three people. Two men, and a smallish female. The dimness made it hard to make out detail, but it was clear one of the men impelled the woman forward while the other man looked over his shoulder as if to see if anyone followed.

  In the quiet marble and wood-trimmed nave, Mark’s nerves tingled as if in response to danger. Something about the group’s movements were off-kilter. A trickle of sweat ran down his back, and his hands clenched the wooden rail in front of him.