A Match for Melissa

by Susan Karsten

  Mr. Southwood looked about to burst the buttons on his waistcoat once seated to Aunt Lucy’s right in a place of honor. Mr. Cleaver sat to her left. Mark held forth at the head of the table with Miss Southwood to his right and Miss Cleaver to his left. Pleased at the outcome, he noted propriety would be fully served as well by this arrangement.

  Miss Southwood so close at hand proved a distraction. Near enough to touch. Any remaining appetite fled. Delectable dishes came and went. Her nearness dazzled his senses, and delicate waves of her delicious minty perfume infused his head. Was this love?

  By the second course, the group was comfortably settled. Conversation flowed well, considering the tense undertone caused by the presence of Mr. Southwood. Aunt Lucy kept him occupied, facilitating Mark’s ability to speak freely with Miss Southwood, who sat next to him at his end of the table.

  “I hated leaving you yesterday morning when we ran into each other at the vicarage. But I denied myself to linger with you as was my wont.”

  “You have a pattern of self-denial?” Her hand went to her throat.

  “If it gains me my ultimate goal, yes. You see, until I have your father’s approval, I shall not strive to engage your affections.”

  “Are you sure such striving is in order?’

  The little minx, she was baiting him. Delightful.

  “I will be meeting with your father very soon. Tomorrow, Lord willing.”

  “That sounds interesting. A clash may be on your horizon.”

  “Miss Southwood, a different sort of battle is shaping up.” Amused, with a subtle tilt of his head, he indicated Aunt Lucy’s attention being drawn first by Mr. Southwood, and then by Mr. Cleaver. Her coral earrings jiggled each time she turned. No sooner would one man receive a response from her to a conversational gambit and the other gent would chime in, attempting to secure her favor and interest.

  “I’m glad I don’t have to compete to speak with you.” Mark gave Miss Southwood the sweetest smile he could muster, poignantly raised from deep within his heart. The desire to touch her, even her hand, welled strong.

  The table happened to fall silent the exact moment Aunt Lucy asked a question. “Mr. Southwood, where do you attend divine services in London?”

  “I attend at…I don’t attend—anymore,” Southwood sputtered, turning red and staring down at his plate.

  “Once upon a time, you did? What happened?”

  “My wife’s unexpected death took me away from my normal churchgoing.”

  Mark smiled behind his napkin when, with a quietly sympathetic tone, Mr. Cleaver used the opportunity to exhort, “Most believers find great comfort in the hope of eternal life at such a time. I understand, however, others can spiral into a spiritual morass of confusion when a dear one passes on. I’d be happy to lend a listening ear and perhaps offer some hope.”

  Mark knew more than anyone how good a counselor and listener Mr. Cleaver was.

  “Oh! How kind of you.” Aunt Lucy interjected, bestowing a gratified smile on the minister.

  Mr. Cleaver cleared his throat and lifted his hand, palm out. “Don’t dwell on giving me credit. I live to guide the flock, comfort the bereft, and so forth. Come call on me at the vicarage some day during your visit.”

  “I’ll try to find the time,” answered Southwood. “As how Mrs. Banting has been so kind as to extend an invitation for me to be a guest at Russell Manor, I would like to rusticate a bit and tour the countryside whilst I am here. It’s been years since I’ve been out of the city.”

  Miss Cleaver entered the conversation, offering a change of topic. “I miss some of the amenities of London, but not the noise or the stench.” She raised fingertips to her blushing cheeks and subsided, leaning back against her chair, eyes closed.

  While the two older men took turns grappling for Aunt Lucy’s attentions, Mark conversed with Miss Southwood, finding it easy to talk to her.

  “I enjoyed seeing you at the ball. I’m so glad you attended.” Amusement tickled him to say this since the entire ball being concocted to bring her into his orbit.

  “It was a lovely evening. I had a wonderful time.”

  “Your gown was beautiful. Am I mistaken or did my aunt say you and she share a modiste?”

  “Too true. Much to our mutual delight.” She glanced toward Mrs. Banting, and then back at him, smiling.

  “You are a delightful dancer.” Mark loved the way Miss Southwood’s cheeks turned a delicate pink at the words of flattery.

  Miss Cleaver leaned forward again and caught Mark’s eye. “Miss Southwood’s dancing flourished during our later years together. A dancing master was brought in to train her.”

  “Oh, Prissy, ’tis a miracle I even remembered the steps, never having a chance to use them until Mrs. Banting’s ball. You do boast of me.”

  Mark recaptured Miss Southwood’s attention. “Quite a surprise your father showed up here. And on the night of our dinner party. Grateful he agreed to stay.”

  “Your aunt kindly invited him. I hope you don’t mind?” Melissa’s delicate eyebrows lifted as she asked.

  She clearly wasn’t so embarrassed at her father’s machinations that it prevented her ability to relax and enjoy the evening—showing remarkable poise. Mark spoke, intent on preventing her any anguish over her father’s actions. “I certainly don’t mind, and Aunt Lucy loves having guests. Why, look, she’s happy as can be with an attentive man on each side.”

  He infused his words with lighthearted empathy and understanding, wanting Miss Southwood to be comfortable enough with him that she might someday turn to him as a confidant. He’d never bring up the rescue in the chapel at St. George’s—interrupting a disastrous abduction.

  He decided to include Miss Cleaver, who’d sat silent for too long. “Ladies, I’m starting to notice that my life has been accident-ridden of late. If you can call being robbed an accident.” Mark made a rueful face.

  “Shocking experience,” Miss Cleaver said with a lift of her chin.

  “God’s grace worked it for good because I received the gift of faith during my recovery.”

  “So glad you speak so freely of your newfound faith. Praise God.” Miss Southwood tapped his forearm with her fan and tilted her head toward him with an air of sisterly concern.

  Miss Cleaver chimed in, “Lord Russell, I agree wholeheartedly that faith is a gift, and it’s amazing, too, that God planned your salvation from the beginning of time.” She spoke with assurance.

  “Such a blessing he dragged me unto himself—dead in sin as I was. Thank you for reminding me of that.” Mark glanced down, humbled. “On the other hand, the purpose of my carriage accident in London isn’t clear yet. But since I don’t believe in luck, good or bad, there must be a reason for these trials.”

  “You had a mishap in London as well?” Miss Cleaver pursed her lips and raised her brows.

  “I shall tell you about it another time.” Mark arranged his face in reassuring lines and glanced toward Miss Southwood, tantalizingly close to his right. He felt the world fall away as his eyes met hers.

  “I hope my father will be reasonable about our friendship. He can’t keep me prisoner.” She sighed.

  Mark allowed his hand to cover hers for a mere moment, and their eyes locked again. Friendship was not the word for what surged through his blood.

  He withdrew his touch as footmen circulated with the final course, a dessert called strawberry fool. He wanted to respond to her last remark but couldn’t because the room had suddenly fallen silent as the guests delighted themselves with the luscious fruit-laden confection. He’d wait a while longer to further his suit. Perhaps tomorrow held an opportunity to spend a few precious moments with her.

  39

  Homer Southwood appeared in the dining room the next morning, and after bowing, his gaze landed on Lucy. She offered him a welcoming smile. “Blessed day, isn’t it?” Lucy sipped her breakfast coffee and glanced out the window.

  “Lovely day.” He moved toward the buffet,
made his selections, and with his full plate, seated himself close to her. “Your dress is such a pretty color. What do you call the hue?”

  “Jonquil.” She fluttered her lashes in his direction.

  “May I escort you on a circuit of the garden later this morning, ma’am?”

  The man surely seems smitten. How sweet. “A walk in the garden would be most pleasant. Please do have some breakfast.”

  She sent Mr. Southwood an invitation to the ball. And when he arrived on the doorstep yesterday, she’d invited him to be a houseguest at Russell Manor. Her only motivation the desire to help her nephew’s suit with Melissa. But now flutters and unbidden stirrings of affection for the man rose within—despite the inauspicious beginnings of their acquaintance. Had he been brought into her life for another reason? She enjoyed his company.

  “Tell me, how are you faring as a widower, Mr. Southwood?” Lucy sat back and waited for his answer.

  He stiffened, coughed, but after a moment he gazed into her face. “It’s been a painful year. How long have you been a widow?”

  “It has been six lonely years.”

  “An excellent woman like you? I find that hard to believe.”

  “It’s true. If not for my nephew—such a fine young man—I think I’d still be pining away, alone, in my London house. Ever since Mark inherited the title and became a believer, he’s been a different person, and very kind to me.” A good word never hurt. She dabbed the corners of her mouth and wiped her fingertips with a napkin.

  “Since you brought up the topic of your nephew, let me ask you a few questions. What can you tell me about his character? He’s quite different from the usual pink of the ton.” Homer bit into his toast and leaned forward to listen to her answer.

  “Now that’s a topic I am very familiar with.” She poured herself some more tea from a pot on the table before speaking again. “Mark lived as a typical care-for-naught until brought low.”

  His brows snapped together. “What do you mean by low?” His brows snapped together.

  “Don’t you know? He was set upon and robbed on the way home to Russelton.”

  “There are robbers in the vicinity? My Melissa—has she been in danger?”

  “No, it appears to be a one-time occurrence. Not a violent crime since.”

  “Tell me about Lord Russell. How bad was he hurt?”

  “He was beaten severely, but his injuries were not permanent. While he recuperated at home here, and took up his responsibilities to the estate, he was converted.”

  “Converted?”

  “Yes. The Lord worked faith in his heart.”

  “Ah, yes. Fascinating. Allow me to ask you something more personal, Mrs. Banting, if I might. How have you dealt with the Lord since you were widowed? Have you accepted his taking your husband—and you still in the prime of life?” Southwood lowered his fork and tossed his napkin on the table next to his plate.

  “I had to.” This conversational direction took her by surprise, but she didn’t care. To talk about her loss didn’t hurt anymore. She made to rise, and a footman shot forward to pull her chair out. Before he could retreat to his position against the wall, Lucy spoke to him. “Nip out to the entry hall and get my parasol and gloves, please.”

  Southwood, having risen as well, extended his elbow. She laid her hand on his sleeve. “We’ll go out here.” She gestured toward the French doors and referred to his earlier question. “Let’s move outside into the sunshine, and I will tell you more. Such topics need the light of day.” The footman opened the doors, and she walked through, hand on her guest’s arm.

  Stepping across the terrace and gaining the lawn, she resumed the conversation. “You asked me about my reaction to the loss of my husband.” As she spoke, Lucy tugged at her gloves and smoothed them over her hands.”

  “Yes, I did ask, but since it’s nice out here, maybe we can talk about your widowhood another day. I probably shouldn’t have asked.” His cheeks tinged red.

  “I’m not bothered by talking about it, as it’s been a long time.” She opened her parasol and twirled it over her shoulder.

  He persisted with his backpedalling. “I’d never dream of making you uncomfortable. I simply wanted to hear from someone who has gone through the loss of a spouse, too.”

  Lucy’s heart went out to him. Men were seldom able to share their deep emotions with others.

  “Let’s sit here.” She indicated a stone bench near a fountain, and after Southwood brushed off the seat with a large handkerchief, she sat.

  He looked down and studied the toes of his boots. “I’ve had no one to talk to about my loss.”

  Refreshed by his frank honesty and prompted by his inquisitiveness about her widowed state, Lucy forged ahead. “It’s quite all right. These things need to be brought out into the light—the light of the love of the Son.” She watched his face as he processed her words.

  “If you’re sure.” He yanked down the edges of his vest.

  “Won’t you sit down?” She patted the bench. “It’s taken time, but I’ve learned to accept the loss of my husband.”

  “But how?”

  “It helps to remind myself he is now with the Lord. I, too, shall someday pass into eternity. I am sad to have lost him, but he has gained heaven, and I also have hope in the resurrection.”

  “That’s quite theological.”

  “Yes, but theology is a good thing. For example, we must number our days because man is like the grass which withers. I’ve had to learn to love life again.”

  Southwood leaned back, stroked his chin, and let out a sigh. Lucy sensed his struggle as emotions flickered across his face.

  “You’ve gotten right to the core of my problem, Mrs. Banting. I have been so angry at God for taking my wife I’ve overlooked the blessings of the living. I will admit to cutting myself off from God—after a long life of believing and serving Him.”

  “I am happy to hear your testimony of faith.” She ceased talking and opened her fan, giving a few desultory waves. Maybe if she stayed quiet, he’d say more.

  “It’s time I accept my wife’s death. I can’t punish God or truly cut faith out of my life. God’s Word expresses it well. ‘Where can I go from Your Spirit?’” He hid his face in his hands.

  “Oh, yes, His love is bigger than our grief.” She patted his shoulder with the lightest of touches.

  He lifted his face. “Mrs. Banting?”

  “Yes? Please call me Lucy.”

  He rose and turned to face her. “I need to make amends with my daughter. I must go think. Time with you is special, Lucy.” He bent over her extended hand.

  “You are welcome, Homer. Farewell.” She watched him hasten toward the stables.

  40

  Mark had an early breakfast and went out to ride the bounds of the estate. When he returned, he bathed and changed clothes to rid himself of the odor of the stable. Before long, he descended to his desk to study some maps of his lands. He racked his brain for inspiration of how to find clues to the identity of the rogues who attacked him. Responsibility for the continuity of his family property and the welfare of his tenants caused a constant niggle of unease to set up residence in the back of his mind. The safety of the entire locality burdened him, and criminals on the loose cut up his peace.

  Voices sounded from the breakfast room across the hall. A door opened and shut. Then silence. Aunt Lucy and Mr. Southwood. They probably went out the French doors to the gardens. Aunt Lucy loved to show guests the flowers. It dawned on Mark as a chance too good to pass up. She might keep Southwood occupied for the greater part of the morning.

  He wouldn’t be questioned or observed. The day shone too bright to be sacrificed to studying maps, especially when the presence of a special young lady beckoned his heart. Butler not in sight, Mark grabbed his gloves, hat, and cane from the hall table, let himself out, and set out on foot at a brisk pace. In less than ten minutes, he reached the front door of the vicarage.

  Miss Southwood opened th
e door as he raised his fist to knock. She must have seen him coming. Time stood still as he drank in the charming picture she made—rosy cheeks, lace cap, and tendrils of blond hair peeking out around her face.

  “Lord Russell! Good morning. Won’t you come in?” She stepped back to make way for him to enter.

  “I’ll stay out here. Indeed, it is an excellent morning—too nice to be indoors.” He spoke from the doorstep, having no wish to compromise her by entering the house without anyone else present. “It’s good to see you, Miss Southwood. Would you care to take a stroll on the vicarage grounds?”

  “That sounds delightful. I’ll get my things.” She turned away toward the hall and emerged after a minute or two—wearing a bonnet, gloves, and shawl, and with Miss Dean following a step behind.

  He paused on the front stoop and smiled down at her. He extended his arm to the side, bent at the elbow, and she placed her gloved hand upon the sleeve of his coat. They stepped down onto the stone-covered front walk and followed it to where it turned, leading to the gardens in the back of the house.

  From a few steps behind, Miss Dean said. “Don’t worry, I shall be nearby but not so close as to intrude. Enjoy your stroll.” He paused to allow the companion to pass, and she wandered ahead to examine a sundial on the other side of the clearing.

  He smiled down at Miss Southwood, and she squeezed his arm. Though much smaller than the gardens of Russell Manor, he thought the vicarage garden was charming—especially with Miss Southwood in it. An orchard abutted the gardens. He guided her toward an alluring bench beneath an apple tree on the edge of the orchard. His pretty walking partner gave no resistance. With a gloved hand, he swept the stone seat clear of fallen petals.

  As if to echo his courtly gesture, Miss Southwood made a small curtsey before seating herself in the dappled shade of the tree. Maintaining a proper distance from her on the stone bench went against his natural inclination, but he willingly refrained from getting cozy. He smiled at her. She reciprocated, and the mutual gaze lasted for a lengthy moment before he broke the happy silence.