“I would imagine so. I believe Lord Russell joined the ranks of candidates never leaving the gate. You see, my father decided to select only one suitor, and he already chose Lord Winstead before Lord Russell arrived.” Melissa hated to recall the whole circus. Her fingers flew to her forehead as a wave of chagrin swept over her.
Mrs. Banting spoke on in a lighthearted tone. “My nephew told me only the barest bones of the story of how he encountered you in London. I first learned of his interest when he asked me to host a ball for the express purpose of inviting you—and your father—of course.”
“Oh! I wondered how the invitation happened to come our way. I saw him at my house on the day he asked to court me.” It was a pleasure to remember their meeting—one of the best experiences of her life.
“How did that come about? You weren’t present when he appealed to your father, were you?”
Mrs. Banting’s pragmatic question brought Melissa crashing back to Earth. “No. Lord Russell left my father’s study after being turned down. He noticed me as he passed the door of the first-floor sitting room. He came in to say hello.”
“How deuced improper. But what a delicious set of circumstances!”
Melissa smiled. “Yes, but did he tell you we were not completely unacquainted at that time?”
“Yes, he told a very little about how he met you.”
“You see, we conversed that day at my home, but I met him, so to speak, during my most recent visit to the country. To Russelton.”
“Russelton’s Mark’s family seat.” The woman nodded encouragement.
“My dear friend and former companion lives there. Her brother is the vicar, and she is now his housekeeper. A few days before I returned to London, I found Lord Russell near the road I used for my daily constitutional. He had been set upon and left for dead.”
“He told me of the attack. He mentioned you helped nurse him. Such dire situations can foster intimate connections. And you departed for the city very soon after. Merciful heavens, what a story.”
“It all has a fairytale quality, doesn’t it?” Melissa hoped Mrs. Banting would not disapprove. Telling the story brought to mind how bereft her return to London left her—how much she’d missed Lord Russell.
“He shared with me the story of his subsequent conversion. I must say, he is a different young man now. He’s even taking me to church every Lord’s Day.” Mrs. Banting smiled and squared her shoulders.
“I never had the chance or reason to tell my Papa about that adventure. He’d probably frown on it—even though I did the right thing. He has the idea that nothing out of the ordinary should ever happen to me.”
“Does he need to be informed?” Mrs. Banting tossed her head.
“Since I hope to go to Russelton, to the vicarage, on a visit, it’s not a topic I’ll mention now. If he thinks the region is crime-ridden, he might forbid my trip. I am refusing my Papa’s matchmaking schemes for now and the foreseeable future.”
By the time their evening chat ended, the two were bosom friends with excellent rapport. Melissa laid out her dilemma, and Mrs. Banting advised her wisely on some possible approaches to take with her father.
The brief cover-up visit blessed Melissa. She marveled at how pleasant an interlude it was, considering its cause. On her way home late the next morning, she reviewed her plans to set her father on his heels.
27
Melissa entered her father’s study after a bath and change of clothes. Strengthened by Mrs. Banting’s support, she resolved to have a heart-to-heart talk about her father’s misguided plan to marry her off to a nobleman.
He was talking before she sat down across the desk from him.
“So my gel, what happy chance brought you under the roof of the admirable Mrs. Lucy Banting?” Papa rubbed his hands together, jovial and eager to learn about his daughter’s impromptu social visit. “She is, in my opinion, a lady of quality and, therefore, a desirable contact in every way.”
“Papa, it was far from an undilutedly happy event. Your hand-picked suitor has lost his patience, if not his mind. He abducted me, bound and gagged me, and dragged me into a chapel. There, your precious Lord Winstead attempted to force me to wed.” She showed her father her profile, chin up.
“What?” he sputtered, half rising. “Forced? Were you harmed?”
“Only if you deem this harm.” She held out her wrists, still red and chafed. “If Lord Russell hadn’t happened to be in the church, I would now be married to that cad, Winstead. Lord Russell interrupted the proceedings and rescued me. Thanks to him I am not physically harmed. As to my name, if our subterfuge upon leaving the church is successful, my reputation will be unharmed as well.”
“Harrumph. This is disturbing.” He sat down and stroked his chin. He stuck his finger between his cravat and his neck, pulling the neckcloth out to ease its fashionable tight fit.
“I am quite shaken up, and I require two things from you. One, your agreement this husband hunt among the ton be set aside for at least the near future. Two, I need a restorative visit to the country.” She held back the anger teetering on her lips and hoped she played her hand well enough—such a difficult man with which to negotiate.
He came around the desk, took her hand into his, and held it for several long moments. His palpable chagrin salved her pride and subdued her anger.
“Of course we can put it all on hold. Winstead is more than on hold—he is out of the running. He’s gone beyond the pale.”
“I agree, Papa.” Melissa tried not to preen over her strategic victory.
“It’s too bad his suit became somewhat public knowledge. We will need to let some time go by before we proceed with another candidate now.”
She retrieved her hand from her father’s. “How nice of you. However, I will not proceed with any more of your impoverished aristocrats, Papa. You must reconsider your approach altogether. Since you have such a talent at finding potential husbands, perhaps use a better set of criteria in the future.” If only Papa placed more value on faith, this might never have happened.
“Now, daughter, I’ll tolerate no disrespect. Through the years, I have learned a practical, businesslike approach to matters is indeed the best. When I deem enough time has elapsed to resume our mission, you and I shall meet again and review the strategy.”
“Papa, remember this is your quest, not ours. Whether it ever resumes at all must be a matter for discussion. I’ve never been so mortified in my life. He bound and gagged me. Haven’t you had enough of your schemes?”
“Well…” He sputtered to a halt.
“I am writing Miss Cleaver today and inviting myself on a visit there. Being abducted has cut up my peace.” Melissa stood, scraped together her composure, and left the study.
28
Miss Cleaver hummed as she went about her duties at her brother’s vicarage. Her presence as housekeeper contributed to the house running smoothly without many on staff. Betsy, the cook, Bert and Toby for the garden and stable, were supplemented by a kitchen maid and a housemaid who came in during the day.
A pile of mail lay on the hall table. Miss Cleaver always saved it to open when done with her morning round of chores—providing herself a small reward for her labors and an incentive to complete them in short order. She shuffled through the stack as she walked into the parlor. Oh good, a letter from Melissa.
She scrabbled in her reticule, which hung from the arm of her favorite rocking chair, for her eyeglasses. Convenience kept her from wearing them all the time—they so easily became smudged—since she only needed them for reading. Glasses on, she reached for the letter knife kept on the nearby table. Delaying gratification, she slit all the envelopes and perused all other pieces of mail first.
At last, she allowed herself the pleasure of reading the correspondence from her former charge.
Dear Priscilla, I hope this missive finds you well, and Mr. Cleaver in fine fettle, also. I’ve experienced a difficult turn of events in London of late and find mysel
f in need of a time of seclusion, peace, and comfort. May I impose upon you for a visit at the Russelton vicarage? I promise I’ll be no trouble.
The letter went on with proposed travel dates, and a smattering of other information, but it lacked clarity as far as she was concerned since there was no explanation of the difficulties. She bit her lip, worried about Melissa. London could be a treacherous place, and dear innocent Melissa may have fallen prey to scandal.
Miss Cleaver wanted very much for Melissa to come to stay. She went to the writing desk in the corner of the room and penned an immediate reply, imploring Melissa to visit without delay. Whatever events befell the poor, lonely young lady would wait. If she sent the letter today, Melissa could be here, telling her woes, in less than a week.
An insistent knock rattling the parlor door broke into her thoughts of her distant friend. “Yes? Come in.”
Betsy, the cook, entered, hands clasped under her apron. “Miss Cleaver, a person came to the back door. I didn’t know what to say, so I brought her to you.”
That’s when a dreary figure behind the cook, hovering in the recesses of the hall, came into focus. “Send her in. You did right, Betsy. You may go back to your kitchen.”
Unknown visitors were a common occurrence at most vicarages. The long wars ravaged numerous families and sent the economy into a downward spiral, leaving many folks hungry. Where else better to seek aid than a vicarage?
“Don’t be afraid. Come in.” Miss Cleaver carefully removed her spectacles, set them down, and rose from her seat at the desk. With a coaxing tone and gesture, Miss Cleaver encouraged the bedraggled female to enter the parlor.
On halting steps, the woman moved forward. A pale, pinched face and pained dark eyes partly appeared, shadowed by a sad bonnet and lank tendrils of hair that couldn’t decide to be brown or blond. Tidy enough clothing, but mussed and with the distinct look of having fallen on hard times—frayed cuffs, patched gloves, and a hem that needed the attentions of a needle.
“Are you not hungry? Why did the cook bring you to me?”
“I am hungry, ma’am.” The woman, young but no longer in the first blush of youth, bobbed a curtsey, and then reached up and shoved the escaping hair back into the bonnet. This revealed a fine-boned face of singular sweetness. “But I asked for more than food. That’s why the cook brought me forward.”
“What is your request?”
“First, I’d like to properly introduce myself to you. My name is Miss Cassandra Chesney, and I am cast out into the world alone on my own devices. I need work. Oh, please…don’t say no.”
“I am Miss Cleaver, sister to the minister here. I normally don’t hire people via the back door, nor when we have no opening.” She laid her fingertips along her temples, stroking them in a rotating motion. “I shall ring for tea, and you can tell me how you came to this sad state of affairs.” She lowered her hands and reached for the bell, giving it a shake.
“Oh, thank you, ma’am—so kind of you.” Miss Chesney looked around for a seat but waited to be invited.
“Go on. Sit down. I, too, could use a cup of tea.” Miss Cleaver herself sat in her rocking chair near the window.
Betsy appeared at the door, mobcap quivering with curiosity. “You rang, Miss Cleaver?”
“Indeed I did. Sorry to disrupt you, Betsy. Please send the day girl—if she’s still here—with a tea tray. Add some cheese, meat, bread, and jam to the tray. That’s all.”
“Day girl’s still here. She’s helping me make cheese. I’ll send her straight away, Miss.” She bobbed a curtsy and departed.
“Now that’s settled, why are you here?”
The woman sank onto a bench near the fireplace. “Miss Cleaver, I simply want to work—as a maid, even—scullery, kitchen, upstairs, downstairs—anything. I’m desperate.”
“Back up and tell me where you’re from and how you found yourself in such need.”
She wrung her hands. “I hate to admit the truth in this instance.”
Miss Cleaver’s spine stiffened. “The truth’s the only coin accepted here.”
“No. I don’t mean I’d lie. It’s hard to reveal to anyone how far I’ve fallen.”
“Fallen? I see. I’ll be frank. Have you lost your virtue? Because there’re homes for those unfortunates. I’m not sure this is the place for you.”
“That’s not how it is. My virtue is intact.” She knocked a clutched hand against her chest. “I’m simply so ashamed to be destitute. They turned me out when the new people came. No room for me.”
Determined to get to the bottom of it, Miss Cleaver pressed on. “And where was this?
“Two counties over. My father died and left me a penniless orphan with no relatives or other connections to take me in. I had no portion so never was able to marry. But that is the least of my problems now.”
“So two counties over, you lost your home. And you came here?”
“Miss, my father often mentioned his colleague, Mr. Cleaver and what a kind, Christ-like man he was. In fact, my father admired him so very much. When I was put out, he was the only possible safe harbor I could think of. Grasping at straws, I know.” A tinge of red crept onto the white cheeks.
Footsteps in the hall heralded the maid’s arrival. “Here’s the maid now. We’ll speak no more at this time. Right over here.” To the maid, Miss Cleaver indicated a round table near her chair. “That’s fine. Thank you so much. I’ll ring if we need you. Close the door on your way out.”
Miss Cleaver leaned forward to serve. She poured cups of tea, and after adding a generous dollop of milk, passed a cup to Cassandra. “The tea will do you good. Now I’ll fix a plate for you.”
She handed the plateful to Cassandra who balanced it on her lap. The young woman sipped her tea in a polite fashion. Her manners were pleasingly refined.
“We’ll talk more after you’ve eaten,” Miss Cleaver said. She placed her own cup on the table, leaned back, and holding the arms of the chair, rocked steadily, staring straight ahead.
When the guest was done eating, she spoke. “Thank you. That was very good. I am grateful.” Cassandra rose to return her plate and cup to the tray. Reseating herself, she looked at Miss Cleaver as if waiting for the questioning to go on.
“Your father was a colleague of Mr. Cleaver?”
“Yes. Apparently they had a collegial acquaintance through their mutual ministerial calling. Papa spoke exceedingly highly of him. I do apologize for coming here this way.”
“You’ve come all the way here on a slim thread of hope?”
“Yes. My only strand of hope.”
“I’ll need to know your complete story.”
“I will tell you all, but in utter confidentiality. I’d hate others to learn of my shame.”
“Within reason, depending on your story; and if I have no cause to tell anyone, I shall be as silent as the grave. Now, why don’t you slip off your bonnet and pelisse, and let’s move over to the fire. The day is so damp.” Miss Cleaver mixed firmness with kindness and hoped the woman understood the reason for her pressing inquiries. She could not take in a strange female with a shadowy past.
Shed of her bonnet and pelisse, Cassandra Chesney looked to be about thirty years of age. Thin and peaked-looking, Miss Chesney presented a frowsy appearance due to scarsity of food, Miss Cleaver surmised.
“Miss Cleaver, thank you for suspending your doubts enough to hear me out. I am the daughter of a minister in good standing. He never had money to put by for me or provide a portion for me. He gave much of his meager living to the poor of the parish, to his own health’s detriment.”
“And how did you end up cast out into the world?” Miss Cleaver thought she could guess the basic scenario. Poor dear—telling all might do her good.
29
“A new man came to take the parish. He and his wife and six children. There was no room for me, and they basically told me to leave. It sounds bad, but I really don’t believe they meant for me to be homeless. They didn’t re
alize I’d nowhere to go. My shame wouldn’t allow me to bring myself to beg. Now, after two days on the road, sleeping one night in a barn, and one under a hedgerow, I have sunk that low. I implore you to have pity on me.”
“My dear, you have my full sympathy. Pity I shall save for the man who cast you out. He’ll have to answer for his uncaring action some day.”
“All I ask is a corner of a room—the attic’s fine. I’ll work so hard, you’ll forget how you did without me. I simply request that I be here anonymously. I’d like a private existence and for no one to know my story.”
“You’ve done nothing to be ashamed of. But I see no reason to tell anyone.”
“But it reflects poorly on others—on my father for not providing—and on the people who cast me out. I feel so worthless, and I’d rather be alone in my humiliation.”
“Enough of that talk. I’ve noticed the stairs becoming more of a trial for me of late. I’m sure my brother will want to ease my duties, and he can well afford another maid. All we have now, besides the cook, and me as a housekeeper, are two day girls.”
Miss Cleaver rose, and Cassandra followed suit. “My poor, dear lady,” Miss Cleaver said, drawing Cassandra in with a hug around the shoulders, “you’ve been through the mill. Let’s take you upstairs and get you situated.”
~*~
“Come in, Priscilla.” Mr. Cleaver called. What now? The door seemed to receive more traffic whenever he was writing a sermon.
“A surprising…shall we say…a visitor arrived at the back door today.” She followed this odd preamble by placing her hands on her hips.
Decidedly martial. “What’s got you up in arms?”
“Jeremiah, do you remember a colleague of yours by the name of Chesney? The man’s orphaned daughter, Cassandra, appeared here today, looking quite worse for wear.”
“An orphan? Here? What did you do with the child?”
“I gave her sustenance. Poor thing hadn’t eaten for longer than I’d care to know.”
A Match for Melissa Page 15
