A Match for Melissa

by Susan Karsten

  The maid came with tea, and after she’d had a cup, Lucy climbed into her four-poster bed to snuggle under a downy throw. Eyes closed, she pondered the morning’s events. Could it be Homer developed a tendre for her? All signs said yes.

  Mr. Cleaver acted like a suitor as well. Could it be that he, too, thought of love? Toward her? How droll—a smile stole over her face before she nodded off for a late morning nap.

  ~*~

  It was time for lunch, and Mr. Southwood’s hunger could not be denied. Informed by a footman that a cold collation was arrayed on the sideboard in the dining room, he paused outside the threshold of the door. He heard snatches of a baffling conversation.

  “…he’s got nine lives, he does,” the first voice said.

  “Don’t give up. You’re next in line. This means everything to you,” said a second, deeper voice. “You deserve the inheritance. He’s been undeserving all these years. What about your expectations?”

  Catching himself eavesdropping, he decided to enter the room and try to make sense of the overheard words later. He tucked away the odd snippet of conversation in his prodigious memory. He made his entrance, and the owners of the two voices looked up, startled. They both began to rise.

  “Please, don’t bother rising on my account. I shall join you instead.” With a disarming and purposely silly smile on his face, Homer filled his plate, and then moved over to the table. He pulled out a chair and placed his plate in front of him.

  “Gents, my moniker is Southwood, Mr. Homer Southwood of London. Guest of the family—invited by Mrs. Banting. Who might I be lunching with?”

  “I am Sir Giles Walsh.” This introduction belonged to the first voice he’d overheard. Short and corpulent, Sir Walsh wore an unbecoming suit of clothing all in shades of brown and violet.

  Then the deeper-voiced man spoke. “I’m Lord Armbruster. How do you do? We, too, are guests of the family. In fact, we are family. Arrived on an impromptu visit.” Much taller than Sir Walsh, Lord Armbruster wore a garish green and yellow striped vest with numerous fobs.

  Socially ambitious, Homer would normally be delighted to be on speaking terms with two members of the aristocracy, as these two obviously were. Their titles and elaborate apparel spoke of that. But he couldn’t enjoy the meeting as a benevolent happenstance due to what he heard while eavesdropping. The accidentally-ingested words lay locked firmly in his memory and left a bad taste in his mouth. Raising one finger, Homer spoke to the footman. “Coffee, please.” Addressing himself to his food, Homer lapsed into silence. The gentlemen across the table did the same.

  The two guests excused themselves and rose. Reluctant to let them leave without gleaning any information, Homer seized the opportunity. “How long shall ye be here?”

  “Not sure. Not sure.” Amrbruster waved around a vague hand as he answered.

  “Ye say you’re related to Lord Russell?” Homer held his breath and hoped they’d engage in some idle, revealing chatter.

  “Yes, we are relatives.” A snobbish tone overlaid the words as if they hadn’t the time for such a commoner as Homer. They left the dining room without adding any clues.

  Caring little about being snubbed by two such unpleasant noblemen, Homer had a final cup of coffee. He must tell Mrs. Banting how excellent the brew tasted. She’d like hearing how it was better than any in London. He decided to take a short stroll outside on the terrace and maybe venture out on the lawns beyond. Perhaps, he’d go see Melissa again at the vicarage.

  Emerging from the house, he took a left turn onto the terrace. He paced for a time, unsettled by the encounter with the two gentlemen. He needed more strenuous walking to help him think through the portion of the conversation he had overheard. So, spying an appealing path diverging from the far side of the terrace, he accessed it and found himself on a footpath encircling the large house.

  What had they said?

  “…he’s got nine lives. Don’t give up. You’re next in line. This means everything to you. You deserve the inheritance. He’s been undeserving all these years. What about your expectations?”

  Nine lives, inherit, undeserving.

  Homer once again heard the distinctive deep voice and stopped in his tracks. This time the voice came out of an open second-floor bedroom window above his head. Riveted to the spot, he was torn whether to listen or leave.

  “Jenks, I don’t need you plotting on my behalf. You don’t seem to know your place.”

  A quieter, whiny, uncultured voice responded. Homer couldn’t catch the words.

  But the deep, easily recognizable voice of Lord Armbruster spoke again. “You’ll get yours when my plans come to fulfillment, not before. If I can make it look like an accident, well then, all’s the better. I will let you know when and if I need your help. You’ve tried, but for now, keep your eyes and ears open around the manor, and don’t forget you are my valet. Also, watch that Sir Walsh makes no silly mistakes. The man is losing his mind. See you have this jacket brushed and pressed. You may go.”

  Jarred out of his eavesdropping, Homer scuttled away down the path, puzzling over even more suspicious words of which to try to make sense. They were certainly plotting no good, and Homer feared for the target of the nefarious plot he’d overheard. But he squashed the thought of Lord Russell being in danger. That was too farfetched.

  42

  The gong sounded for lunch long ago. But after his intense interlude with Melissa ended with a gunshot, Mark had no appetite and sat behind his desk, feet up, staring at the ceiling. Thoughts swirled: Why was someone using a gun in the vicinity of the vicarage? No hunting grounds lay nearby—no reason for anyone to be shooting. With no reasonable conclusion, he trusted the Lord to protect him from all harm. In fact, in His providence, the bullet missed him.

  Another serious mishap. Life threatening. The attack on the road in early spring, the carriage accident in London, this morning’s stray gunshot. Intuition pointed toward something, but he couldn’t make logical sense of it.

  He rose and stood at the window, immediately spying Mr. Southwood coming around the corner of the house, head down. Mark pushed the French doors open and stepped out. “Sir! Mr. Southwood!”

  Melissa’s father looked up and strode toward Mark.

  Here’s my chance. Please let him be receptive. Mark kept his manner solicitous. “Say, I seem to remember you wanted to speak with me. Would you join me in my study?”

  Mr. Southwood looked over his shoulder. “Yes, let’s get inside.”

  Why the furtiveness? Mark stepped back through the doors, and Southwood followed close at his heels into the study.

  Homer sank into one of the dark brown leather chairs in front of the fireplace, deep in thought.

  Mark decided to be bold. He sat in the matching chair, leaned forward, rested his forearms on his upper legs, and cleared his throat. Then he spoke. “Sir, I’d like to renew my suit with your daughter. Your first candidate is disqualified, and after enough time passes for Miss Southwood to get over her shocking experience, she’ll be ready to be courted again. By me. You are aware that I am a marquis?”

  Southwood slapped the arm of the chair for emphasis. “Certainly—very aware. Courting would be acceptable. But don’t presume to think she’s available for the taking. I’ve always coveted a title for her, but I’ve learned my lesson. She’s going to have the final say. I’ll hold you accountable for her happiness.”

  “Thank you. I’ll make no presumptions. No presumptions at all.” Mark smiled to himself. He had no need to presume. Such swift capitulation was a pleasant surprise. The man was less difficult than he’d feared. Mark’s gaze drifted to the diamond-paned window, allowing himself a brief fantasy in which he strolled in the formal gardens with Melissa.

  Snapping back to attention, he continued, “Now Mr. Southwood, you realize of course, I do have a title and a tidy fortune. I am not at all entering into this courtship with any designs on a lavish marriage settlement.”

  “Yes, yes. I understa
nd. I am not concerned.”

  Mark rose and extended his hand for a deal-sealing shake, but Southwood gestured for Mark to sit down. “Be seated, young man. I need to go over another more urgent matter with you.”

  Mark dropped his hand and sank into the comfortable leather chair. At this point, he could afford to be patient even though he wanted to get up and dance a jig. This man would become his father-in-law if his pursuit of Melissa went well. It didn’t matter what Southwood wanted to talk about. “An urgent matter?”

  Homer leaned forward, eyes narrowed. “Two additional guests arrived here this morning.”

  “Guests? Well, who are they?” Mark sought to get down to the point of this delay. He wanted to plan his next outing with Melissa. As much as he needed a good relationship with the man he hoped would be his future father-in-law, there were other things he’d rather be doing at this time.

  “Distant relatives, according to your aunt.” A smile crept over Southwood’s face. “Lovely lady—Mrs. Banting.”

  “Some of my relatives arrived here? How unusual. I’ve issued no invitations.” As these words came out, Mark wanted to bite his tongue since the man before him also arrived without being invited. But Mr. Southwood didn’t seem to notice the gaffe.

  “Yes, right. Two gents. One is tall and deep-voiced. His name’s Armbruster. The other one is average in size, wearing a terrible brown and plum-colored get up and named Walsh. Are they cousins of yours?”

  “Maybe. Not first cousins certainly. I’ve known them all my life. See them around and about London mostly. They don’t figure largely in my family picture, shall we say. I’d have to spend some time to put my finger on the exact relationship. Akin to third cousins once removed or the like.”

  “My advice is to keep your eyes on them. Something is not altogether right.”

  Mark could tell Southwood held back. Perhaps uneasy he would offend Mark by criticizing his relatives.

  “Please elaborate. Whatever you say will not go any farther, and I will not take offense.” Mark leaned back against the chair, intent on listening, his fingers steepled.

  A tap sounded on the door. Both men jumped, startled by the interruption.

  “Come in,” Mark called. A maid pushed in a trolley bearing a pot of tea, two cups, and two plates holding an assortment of ham, cheese, and fruit left from the lunch served earlier in the dining room. The two men sat impatient and silent while she poured each of them a cup, bobbed a curtsey, and left the room.

  “I chanced to overhear some disturbing and confounding remarks.” First, he repeated what he’d heard from outside the dining room. “I heard the tall one, who has a deeper voice, say, ‘He’s got nine lives. Don’t give up. You’re next in line. This means everything to you. You deserve the inheritance. He’s been undeserving all these years. What about your expectations?’”

  “That’s odd.” Intrigued, Mark steepled his fingers near his upper lip. “You must have a prodigious memory to rattle off such a detailed word-for-word report.”

  “Some say I have a memory like a steel trap.” Southwood went on, “There’s more. The loud one, Lord Armbruster? I went outside to walk about, and I heard his voice coming from an upper window, saying to his valet, ‘You’ll get yours when my plans come to fulfillment, not before. If I can make it look like an accident, well then, all’s the better.’”

  “I find this hard to take in. Those words sound like…well, what does it sound like to you?” Dismay settling in his chest, Mark rubbed his forehead and raked a hand through his hair.

  Southwood took a deep breath and let it out again before speaking. “I hate to even voice this, but it sounds to me, putting together what I heard, like the two relatives are plotting against someone, and Armbruster and his valet have someone else in their sights as well.”

  “Sounded like plotting, but against who and why? Not me, I hope. What would be the motive?”

  “Now, this may be farfetched, but who is your heir?”

  “My heir? Can’t say I know who it is. It must sound strange to you, but I’ve been in such turmoil since my brother’s death. Inheriting and shortly thereafter getting robbed, beaten, and left for dead. In my grief, if I was told the identity of the heir, it may have gone in one ear and out the other, and the beating may have knocked any such knowledge out of my head. I’ll have to look into that matter.”

  “Robbed and beaten? Left for dead? I’d forgotten about that. Shameful business.” Southwood’s brows shaped a furrow, and he scowled.

  “On the way home to take up my place as new master of this estate. I inherited the title after my older brother’s sudden death. I was overtaken on the road and robbed. I can’t remember any details of the crime, but I landed in a ditch, close to dead. My memory of the event is unclear.”

  “The situation seems quite havey-cavey. You must get an immediate message to your family solicitors. I am suspicious of these two distant relatives. I heard the words ‘undeserving’ and ‘inherit,’ and wouldn’t they fit my hypothesis? It does seem too farfetched to be true, but how else to explain the words ‘you’ll get yours when I get mine,’ and the snippet I overheard between Armbruster and his valet about getting one, and then the other?”

  “You have a hypothesis? What is it?” Mark asked, heart sinking with a glimmer of the truth.

  “These two bounders are probably in line to inherit. They are trying to kill you. Is that a clear enough hypothesis statement?”

  “With all respect, Mr. Southwood, I don’t want to believe this. In fact, it sounds straight out of a nightmare. But since I’ve experienced two other suspicious accidents since the robbery, I’ll grant you the possibility. I’ll pen a letter this hour and have it couriered to my solicitors in London. We may have our answer as to the name of the heir within three days’ time.”

  Mark’s anxiety level heightened. Now that he was in love, he wanted to live more than ever before. He must live to marry Melissa, have a family with her, and grow old together. Nothing must happen to prevent that.

  He told Southwood the whole story of the life-threatening incidents. “I can’t remember the attack, but my horse ran off and was found on the village green, my saddlebags were rifled, and I was dragged into a flooded ditch.”

  “That could have gone poorly for you, young man. Glad you pulled through.”

  “Then there was a carriage accident in London. The vehicle had been tampered with. I wasn’t hurt, but I could have easily been killed if God hadn’t preserved me again.”

  “I suppose if someone’s behind these ‘accidents,’ they are getting desperate and are likely to try anything.”

  “This morning, a bullet whizzed by my head.” He avoided mentioning Melissa’s presence when the shot zipped by them. He had permission now and didn’t want to muddy the waters. It was an innocent walk in the garden of the vicarage, after all. “I wonder where the two relatives or the valet were at that exact time.”

  “Perhaps I can find out. But even on the existing evidence of their words and my justifiable hypotheses, they deserve watching. I will stick close to Armbruster and Walsh, no matter if I have to force myself on their company. They can’t possibly make another attempt with me right there.” Southwood’s voice conveyed resolve.

  Mark said, “God knows what they’ll try next if our guesses are accurate. Thank God you came to me with your suspicions. And, even more, thank you for permission to court Melissa.” He again tried to rise and shake hands, but the older man interrupted.

  “Russell, sit down. Your mention of courting reminds me of something. I, too, want to do things right, and you probably should know of my honorable intentions toward your aunt.”

  “I see. Do you think she’ll favor your suit?”

  “I’ll do my da—I mean best, to win her. Can you tell me if she has any other suitors? Anyone poised to come crawling out of the woodwork?”

  “Not to my knowledge. I can’t promise you a clear field. It’s up to you to vanquish all others on your o
wn, without a father’s approval. I’m only a nephew and have no authority over Aunt Lucy.”

  “But are ye against me? I’d be your uncle if all goes as I’d like.”

  “How could I oppose such a reasonable plan? Besides, you’ll be my father-in-law, too, Lord willing,” Mark said, suppressing a snicker.

  “I think I’ll go find her now if she’s not resting.” Homer extended his hand, and Mark took it. Worried though he was about the mysterious words, he wanted to dance at the thought of having full approval for pursuing Melissa.

  ~*~

  Homer meandered around the main floor of the house looking into rooms, hoping one of the doors would open onto the sight of Mrs. Banting. He wanted to waste no time. No reason to delay wooing. Not often did such an opportunity present itself—sequestered at a lovely, isolated estate, and he the only invited guest. The two relatives, even if up to no good as he suspected, at least presented no competition for the fair lady’s hand.

  He rounded a corner and caught a whiff of a pleasant floral perfume. He’d noticed his intended ladylove wearing it. She must be nearby. Ah, another door to try, this one’s open. He could just peek in with no one the wiser if she was not there.

  Lucy glanced up from the desk where she sat, pen poised above paper.

  Oh, good—she’s smiling.

  “Hello. Are you searching for someone?”

  “Good afternoon. I was looking for you. May I come in a moment?”

  “I suppose. It’s such a small room, but I like it here. I’ve claimed this nook as my study, and I write my letters here where I can refresh my eyes viewing the outdoors every so often.”

  Homer needed only a few steps to cross the diminutive room. He faced the window. “Very pretty. Such gardens Russell Manor boasts—magnificent.” His back to the room, he faltered. How to proceed? Test the waters or jump right in?

  Lucy interrupted his deliberations. “Do you have a garden in London?”

  He turned to answer. “Only a pocket garden. The grounds are pleasant, but necessarily small. We do have an apple tree. It had just finished blooming when I left London.”