“Now that we are here, let us proceed into the dining room.” As hostess, she decided to put a period to the pre-prandial social time. She glanced around, looking for the bell with which to call the butler. “Where is that bell?”
“Here it is. Why you!” Mr. Southwood wrested the bell away from Mr. Cleaver.
“Me? I simply tried to give Mrs. Banting the bell she asked for, you…” The minister’s face turned white, and then red, and he clapped a hand over his own mouth.
Mr. Southwood elbowed past the mortified man, and with a gloat, presented the bell to Lucy.
“Thank you,” she said in a repressive tone. She took the bell, rang it, and gave it back to Homer with a quiet hiss. “I’d be more pleased if my guests were in accord.” Her fan went into action, hiding the lower half of her face and fanning away the sudden heat in her cheeks.
“Aunt Lucy?” Mark drew her attention. “May I claim the honor of escorting you to dinner this evening?” He held out his forearm and dipped his chin in a gesture meant to brook no indecision.
Since Mark held the highest title in the room and she was the hostess, it was more than appropriate to lay her gloved hand on his arm, smile, and sail forward, trusting the others to sort themselves. Her two putative swains could shift for themselves among the assortment of females available. That would teach them to battle for dominance in the drawing room. The choice of whether and who she would court fell to her and her alone. They could bicker all they wanted, but that wouldn’t make her choose one over the other.
Mark brought her to one end of the lavish table, and he departed to the other end, too far away to help her now. Not predicting their mutual antipathy, she wished she’d known. Now stuck with Mr. Southwood on her right and Mr. Cleaver to her left, she’d be trapped between two sets of daggers drawn if she couldn’t smooth things over.
Nervous though she was, it pleased her to see Mark aiding Melissa into her seat and begin to charm his way further into her heart by the look of their smiles at the far end of the table. Melissa’s father, preoccupied with vying for Lucy’s favor, allowed Mark clear sailing as he wooed Melissa. Such a handsome youthful couple, radiating the joy of young love.
“Ahem, Mrs. Banting, I beg your pardon for my behavior a few minutes ago. Inexcusable.” Mr. Southwood humbled himself readily, surprising Lucy with the speed of his remorse. “And Mr. Cleaver, please forgive my handling of the bell situation. So sorry.”
“Quite so. Pleased to forget it happened.” Mr. Cleaver didn’t linger on the embarrassing topic and turned away, finding Cassandra Chesney seated to his left.
“Miss Chesney, how have you been since arriving at the vicarage?” Cleaver asked.
Lucy murmured inconsequentials to Mr. Southwood, giving him only half her attention, saving at least one eye and ear for the interaction between the minister and Cassandra. The young woman was passably attractive, looked around thirty, and held herself well. An appealing blush rose to Cassandra’s cheeks and long lashes bedecked her sparkling eyes.
Inveterate matchmaker that she was, her thoughts rushed ahead to clarity. Wasn’t Miss Chesney a minister’s daughter? Such a more appropriate match for Mr. Cleaver. Lucy needed to repress any further tenders of interest from him. She liked him fine, but her heart must not be divided. The poor man couldn’t see how green his own grass was. Southwood may be impetuous and aggressive, but something about him touched her heart.
~*~
“You look lovely tonight, my dear.” Mark murmured so only Melissa could hear. “What do you call that shade of blue?”
“Azure, I believe.” She glowed under the attentions of her dinner partner. So this was love. The constant warmth, excitement, and floating on a cloud of delicious imaginings of the future together. Could he perceive her affections via their emotional bond?
She addressed a few remarks to the guest on her left side, Sir Walsh. “Have you enjoyed your visit to Russell Manor?” She hoped this was a suitable topic. Her doubts were soon over as this innocuous question elicited a veritable outpouring of words.
“The room I was given is tolerable, but the view is not to my liking. I hate trees, and I’m staring out the window into a tree. Trees in full leaf, outside my window, blocking sight of anything else is far less than I am used to. Sharing a valet with Lord Armbruster leaves so little time for my needs to be addressed. The horse I was given to ride is not as good as I’d like. But…”
“Oh, I’m glad your stay is adequate. Surely such an invitation is prized?”
“Invitation? No, none of that. We simply decided to visit. That’s what we do.” The man’s lace cuff trailed into his soup as he turned a querulous gaze onto Melissa as if seeing her for the first time.
She glanced over his bent shoulders to lock amused eyes with Miss Dean, whose merry expression told Melissa her companion heard the whole interchange. She carefully turned her attention away, a degree at a time, to survey the assemblage. Straight across the table sat Priscilla, dutifully keeping Lord Armbruster, who sat to her right, in conversation.
Grateful this wasn’t a party for which she was responsible, she exhaled and looked again at Mark as to a touchstone of delight, if not peace.
“Ah, Melissa. Are you enjoying the dinner? The fare this evening was selected to use as many local products as possible, my aunt tells me. Do you recognize the radishes? They are from the village market.” His eyes twinkled, and she suppressed a happy laugh—appreciating his touch of silliness to lighten the atmosphere.
“It was lovely of your aunt to arrange this dinner so that you and I could have social time together. I am enjoying myself. This room, the table, sitting next to you. It’s all special.”
His voice took on a hush. “My dear, to me it is exquisite to have you by my side and to hope for that joy to become a daily event. You and I supping together—for decades, Lord willing.”
She wanted the same thing but needed more time. She loved his words, but the more love he poured out in her direction, the more pressure she felt. “You mustn’t say such things.” She tapped his forearm with her fan.
So hard, this time of waiting for wholeness. Sometimes she wondered if the soreness, the pain caused by the abduction would ever leave her. It even intruded on an evening of delight, like this one.
48
Mark’s thoughts tumbled. She’s such a darling. Little does she know how patient I can be. If it took months—no, years—he wouldn’t abandon his hopes. Melissa was the woman for him, but he must contain his desires. Even his little words of love and of hope unsettled her. When will I learn? She needs me to be constant, yet hold back my feelings and be better about restraining myself. Such a trial but with a delightful goal at the end.
The evening flew by and ended with handing Melissa into the vicarage carriage. He latched the door and stood waving until the vehicle went out of sight before turning back toward the house, toward where Aunt Lucy waited alone at the top of the steps. Mr. Cleaver had departed with the women, this time riding up on the driver’s bench with the coachman, eschewing a long, solitary walk home in the moonlight. The houseguests were inside, probably lingering on in the drawing room, hoping for a hand or two of cards, waiting for Mark to make the fourth.
He bounded up the steps and put an arm around his aunt’s shoulders. “Isn’t it a bit cool out here?”
“Yes, but I needed some fresh air. Did you pick up on all that commotion before we went into dinner?”
“How could I miss it? That’s why I summarily decided to whisk you out of the room on my arm. That way if they came to blows, you wouldn’t be a party to it.”
“Oh, bosh. They weren’t near to violence.”
“So you say. I disagree based on the look on Mr. Southwood’s face. The man appears besotted with you.”
“I must decide what to do about that.” Aunt Lucy disengaged herself from Mark’s arm, clutched her train, and slipped through the front door.
Hesitating to follow, he scuffed his feet on the top
step and shoved his fingers into his vest pockets. Because playing cards wouldn’t satisfy his need for action, he jumped off the step and walked off down the gravel driveway, intending to stargaze and think about the object of his affections. Clear nights upon which one could see the countless stars above had a way of putting problems into proper perspective. He spotted the constellation he used to call “Angel’s Necklace” when he was a child. Thoughts of an angel wearing jewelry made of stars caused visions of Melissa to supersede the sight of the twinkling stars, and he barely registered the rustling in the hedges lining the drive before a stout blow caught him across the back of his head.
Waking to a still-starlit sky, he groaned, rolled to his hands and knees, wincing at the pain from the blow, and stiff from lying on the damp ground. Whoever attacked him did not stay around to finish the job, and for that he was grateful.
Staggering up the drive, marveling at how close to the house the brazen attacker dared approach, he let himself in through the French doors of his study. Careful to lock the door, he decided whether to rouse the house. Decision made, he’d not tell anyone besides Mr. Southwood at first. Consulting his probable future father-in-law came naturally to Mark., but it could wait for the morning. He stretched out gingerly on the sofa in one of the book-lined alcoves and flung an arm up over his eyes.
Waking sore again, but at a daylight hour, Mark made it to his bedroom undetected and stripped off his disheveled evening clothes. Let the servants wonder—there’s no help for that. He put on a dressing gown to wait. His manservant usually appeared at eight o’clock—only a few minutes away. A bath and coffee would set him right.
While he waited, his heart swelled in thanksgiving for the gift of continued life in which to pursue and obtain Melissa as his bride. Ideas of ways to see her this week formed. He grabbed a pencil and paper and scratched out a list of things to set in motion.
After a hot bath and donning fresh clothes, famished for a hearty breakfast, Mark entered the dining room, selecting bacon, eggs, coffee, and toast. He seated himself in a shaft of sunlight, hoping it would ward off the damp. The bath hadn’t banished his aches and had left him with a chill. Spying a footman up against the wall, he set the first of his plans in motion.
“Grayson, is that you?” He peered into the dimness where the man stood next to the thick, plush drapes.
“Yes, sir, ‘tis I, Grayson, at yer service.” Heels clicked, and his old childhood playmate Grayson White emerged from the shadows.
“Grayson, I’d like some flowers from the succession house. Can you, when you have a moment, check and see what’s blooming? There’s a young lady, you see…”
“Yes sir. I can go right now, if you please.”
“Now would be excellent. Report back.”
He returned to sipping coffee and reading the Times—news a few days old but still fresh to him.
Peace ended when Mr. Southwood walked in. “Morning, Russell. How do ye fare this fine morning?” Melissa’s father gave him a cursory glance before loading his own plate.
“Sit down, and I’ll tell you.” Mark waited for him to sit, actually eager to spill the tale of his misadventure. Here was his strongest ally.
“Tell me what? How you fare? A formality—simply asking how-de-do. Not more, not less.” Homer showed himself to be a bit of a grump the morning after a party.
“You’ll be quite interested. I was attacked while on a moonlit stroll last night.”
“What?” Homer gagged on his toast, and a coughing bout followed.
“Shh. I haven’t told anyone else. I wanted to consult with you first. I wasn’t far from the house, but far enough to be along some hedgerows. Someone rushed out of the bushes and slammed something heavy onto my skull. It stunned me, but I came to and took myself home while it was still darkest night.”
“Praise God they didn’t stay to finish you off. I have to admit your two nasty relatives couldn’t have done it. I heard their snores all night long. Who could have hit you?”
“I don’t know. You did hear that valet of theirs scheming with one of the cousins, correct? What about him?”
“I will covertly confront that weasel after breakfast. In business, I’ve become very adept at ferreting out liars. Can see it in their eyes, their movements, and so forth.”
Grayson entered the room. Quietly, he came to stand near Mark’s right shoulder.
“Yes, Grayson?”
“Sir, the succession house’s got many flowers in bloom, including lilacs, tulips, and some more what I can’t pronounce—as well as what’s outside in the garden beds—that’s straight from the gardener, sir.”
“Very good. Please step out to the hall and get Crabtree in here for me.” The footman departed. “Mr. Southwood, do you think I should arrange a bodyguard? Or is that too much?”
“No, that’s not too much. That’s exactly what you should do.”
Crabtree entered with Grayson at his heels. “Ye called for me, sir?”
“Crabtree, I have instructions. Ready?” Mark wanted to give the elderly man time to organize his mind. “I want the gardener to pick an extra-special bouquet’s worth of flowers every day—starting with today. They are to be taken to Mrs. Good for arranging. Have a footman deliver the bouquets each day to Miss Southwood at the vicarage in Russelton.”
“Yes, sir.” Crabtree’s face lit up with glee, and his eyes twinkled.
Mr. Southwood grinned. “She does love flowers. You’ll do yourself no harm with that.”
“That’s all for now, Crabtree.” Mark dismissed the butler.
“I will organize it. Don’t ye worry. We’ll all do our part.” He bowed his way out, looking about to burst with importance.
Mark was amused by the butler’s noticeably proprietary pleasure in aiding him in his suit.
“Enough talk of flowers,” Southwood barked. “Back to your idea of a guard. Do you have anyone suitable?”
A cough came from the vicinity of the drapes where Grayson had receded.
“Grayson here would be suitable.” Mark waved the footman forward. “He grew up on the estate. His loyalty is without question. He’s a prime one with his fives and can keep his mouth shut and eyes open. What say, Grayson, care to give up the footman’s life for a time? Be my bodyguard?”
“Yes, sir. Glad to.”
“Go tell Crabtree, and change out of that getup, and then report to my study.”
“Be careful, Russell. Don’t let go of vigilance just because you have a guard now.”
“I won’t. Rest assured.” Mark finished his breakfast, and then went off humming. He had invited Melissa out for a drive, and the new bodyguard could ride along, sitting with Miss Dean. It seemed best to take a chaperone, even though he’d take an open carriage. Less temptation to press his suit. More comfort for Melissa to relax, enjoy, and get over her trauma.
Conversation over the next week wasn’t exactly stilted, but Mark didn’t speak his heart. On the drives, dutifully accompanied by Miss Dean and Grayson White, they talked about topics such as botany, books, and parish news.
“Those hawthorns must be fifty years old, based on their size.”
“Indeed, and did I tell you I ordered the new book by Sir Walter Scott? It’s said to be excellent and selling well.”
“No, you didn’t mention that. Widow Cranston’s chimney caved in. Her cottage is quite covered with soot. Miss Cleaver and the rest of us plan to go help her clean it.”
Talk went on in this vain. Mark didn’t resent it. He kept his mind on his goal and patiently took Melissa out on drives each day, always accompanied. She seemed to blossom under his relaxed attentions, and the pinched look around her eyes showed up less and less often.
Midweek, he and Grayson, his new shadow, walked to the vicarage at tea time. The bodyguard insisted on carrying a stout club, and strode along, eyes darting to and fro, vigilant for the least bit of movement, ready for an attack. Mr. Southwood’s interview of the guests’ valet hadn’t produced anythin
g definitive, but an eye was being kept on him.
Mark hid a small pistol ready in his boot, but his thoughts wandered. How long would it be before he could try again to secure Melissa’s hand in marriage? When would she be ready? Doubts surged on and on.
Sitting down for tea, he found himself alone with her for the first time in over a week. Grayson stood guard at the front door, taking tea from a mug, brought by the day girl, who visibly simpered as she passed Mark’s line of vision.
“Seems my guard has an admirer.”
“How do you like having a bodyguard?” Melissa’s voice carried worry.
“He’s a childhood friend, so we rub along well. My chances will be better with the two of us if I am attacked again.”
“Hard to believe I was bowling along home after the dinner party, and at the same time, you were being beaten down. I hate to think it.”
“Thank you for caring so deeply, my lo—, my dear.” Mark’s eyes caressed her face, looking for any sign of further encouragement. A look of desire for him lay deep in her eyes, he was sure, but nearer the surface, fear still laid claim upon her. “Don’t be afraid. We will stop the next attack if it comes. I shall see you tomorrow in church. Thank you for the tea. I must go.” Mark bowed over her hand and kissed the air above it.
~*~
“It will be nice to see him at the worship service,” Miss Dean piped up from the corner where she worked with her needles. “He cuts a fine figure and sings very well.”
Melissa recalled those comments when Mark entered the pew across the aisle the next morning and bowed his head to pray. Hard put to keep her mind on her own prayers, she wrenched herself back to them. Lord, please heal my fears so that I can love Mark with my whole heart the way he deserves.
49
Throughout the next week, Mark took solace from the admiration he sensed from Melissa each time he was with her. The simple pleasures of a country courtship—rides, picnics, walks—made her glow with delight. She increasingly relaxed with him as he gave her ample opportunity to observe his steadfast disposition and his kind manner to all. She must be nearing a decision in his favor, he concluded.
A Match for Melissa Page 25
