Miss Modesty's Mistletoe: Regency Romance

by Grace Austen

  “Come right this way, Miss Gibbs,” the seamstress instructed, interrupting Modesty’s musings.

  She dutifully followed the other woman behind a curtain at the back of the shop, and then struggled to stand motionless while attired in only her undergarments, as she allowed the seamstress’s assistant to take her measurements and jot them down on a piece of paper. At least, it was pleasantly warm in the shop. Finally, the young girl put away the measuring tape. Modesty quickly re-donned her gown.

  The seamstress escorted her and her mother back to the front of the shop. “I shall have the gown ready for the first fitting by the end of the next week.”

  “It must be completed within a fortnight, no more,” Modesty’s mother insisted.

  “Of course, Mrs. Gibbs.” The seamstress bobbed a curtsey.

  As they left the seamstress’s shop, Modesty’s mother pulled on her gloves and adjusted her hat. “Let us stop in at the Nettlerush Tearoom before we join your father and return home. He said he wouldn’t be finished with his business until a quarter past three, and I’m famished from missing luncheon.”

  Modesty shivered in the chill air and readily agreed to her mother’s suggestion to seek refreshment—and warmth from the biting winter cold outside.

  They spent a pleasant half hour enjoying a pot of tea and savory mincemeat pies, though the older woman couldn’t refrain from voicing numerous remarks about their visit to the dressmaker, lengthy descriptions of Modesty’s new gown, and all manner of comments about “the Duke of Kilmerstan’s Christmas Eve Ball.”

  However, as she didn’t require any response from her daughter, Modesty paid her little mind, though it appeared the other ladies sitting at tables in the tearoom were eager to catch every word, if their surreptitious eavesdropping was anything to judge by. Not that Modesty’s mother was making any attempt to speak quietly. She seemed to want every lady present to overhear.

  A short time later, they left the tearoom to make their way back to the spot where their carriage waited near the edge of the village.

  As the two women neared the Nettlefold Arms, Modesty spotted her father and Felton exiting the inn’s taproom.

  Georgina Gibbs hailed her husband and tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow, all but ignoring Felton’s presence. But then, the younger man wasn’t a titled gentleman. Therefore, he must be beneath her notice while she sought to marry off her daughter to a suitably elevated personage.

  Modesty cringed as her mother launched into a retelling of their recent endeavors, regaling her father with all the details of the gown they had ordered especially for the Duke of Kilmerstan’s Christmas Eve Ball, of which Reginald Gibbs likely couldn’t care less. But he tolerated it without protest, making noises of approval at the appropriate places, though Modesty suspected he was not paying any particular attention to his wife’s words.

  Modesty hung back a few paces from her parents and was pleased to find Felton keeping pace with her. He clasped his hands at his back as he walked beside her.

  With the older woman carrying on so ahead of them, there was little chance that Felton wouldn’t comprehend what Modesty and her mother had been occupied with in the village this day. But knowing that any reference to the Duke of Kilmerstan must pain him, she didn’t wish to prolong his discomfort and sought to draw his attention away from her mother’s discourse.

  “Did you have business with my father at the Nettlefold Arms Inn, or did you meet by happenstance?” she inquired, then added, “He didn’t mention to mother and me that his business in the village was with you.”

  “We met by chance. I had hoped to further discuss my proposition with your father when I chanced to see him taking refreshment in the common room.”

  For all the good it had done Felton. “But, alas…” A frustrated sigh slipped out before he could catch it back.

  Modesty's eyes widened in surprise. “He refused you?”

  “No.” At least, not yet. “He is still undecided.”

  Her dark eyebrows knit, pulling together above the bridge of her nose. “It’s most unlike Papa to hesitate in matters of business.”

  Felton nodded in acknowledgment.

  Unfortunately, he and Modesty’s father had not come to any sort of agreement on this particular matter. The older man had asked for more time to think it over. True, it was a risky venture—riskier than any they had undertaken together before—but it had the potential to bring them a substantial profit.

  Although Reginald Gibbs’ caution was admirable, Felton had not taken kindly to the older man likening him to his father, a man who’s lack of good judgment and excessive vices had brought the family to the brink of ruin while Felton was away from England fighting Napoleon.

  He’d made his own share of mistakes the past eighteen months, but he had thought he’d proved himself a different man than his father, if nothing else.

  Wise investments had seen a return of the Banfields’ fortunes over the past year and a half. And Felton had hoped this latest business venture would increase their wealth by one quarter.

  Modesty cocked her head to the side. “Perhaps if I knew the particulars of the venture, I might be able to speak with my father about it and sway this business to your favor by convincing him of its merit.”

  “Thank you, but no. If I have not provided sufficient proof of its merit, then perhaps it would be best not to move forward together as partners with your father.” Although Felton was uncertain whether he wished to take on the entire risk himself.

  Not with his younger sister’s come out fast approaching and his mother anticipating the need to buy all manner of things in addition to her plans to rent a lavish townhouse in London for the season. But that was a concern for another day.

  Felton continued to follow behind the elder Gibbses as they passed by the baker’s shop, a boarding house, the local solicitor’s office, St. Cuthbert’s church, and The Bell and Whistle Coaching Inn.

  As their procession neared the edge of town, they walked beside the Nettlerush River. A layer of ice had formed along the banks the previous night, when the surrounding countryside of Berkshire experienced an especially cold spell, but now the ice was beginning to melt in the weak winter sunshine. The sound of the rushing water reached Felton’s ears, and further off, he could see the small flour mill located at the side of the river, its wooden waterwheel turning slowly to grind the wheat and other grains harvested during the early fall by the tenant farmers living on the nearby estates.

  He noted the position of the sun as it sank toward the horizon. “I must be heading home now,” he stated with no small measure of reluctance at being forced from Modesty’s company. But he had little desire to travel the roads after dark, when a lone rider could be easily set upon by highwaymen. “It’s more than an hour’s ride to my estate in Lower Nettlefold,” he added by way of apology.

  He didn’t miss Modesty’s expression of disappointment, though she quickly tried to mask it.

  “Might I look forward to seeing you in Upper Nettlefold and at Stonebridge Manor again soon?” she asked.

  “Undoubtedly.”

  He wished Modesty and her parents “good day,” and then returned to where he’d left his horse at the stables behind the Nettlefold Arms Inn.

  But he couldn’t help but take one last glance over his shoulder. He watched as Modesty disappeared inside the Gibbs’ carriage, and the driver urged the horses into motion. As the carriage rolled past him, he caught a glimpse of her face peering back at him through the window glass, her smile wistful. A moment later, the curtain fell into place once more, cutting off his view of her.

  Chapter 3

  The next day, Modesty learned that her parents had begun their campaign in earnest to find her a titled husband.

  “Your father has agreed that we shall host a dinner party and invite all the eligible gentlemen in the district to dine with us,” Modesty’s mother proclaimed during afternoon tea. “We must send out the invitations without delay. Oh, and I�
�ll have to consult Cook about the menu.”

  It seemed the older woman was thinking aloud more than anything else, since she clearly didn’t expect a response from her daughter. Not that Modesty could fool herself into believing protests from her would make a bit of difference against her mother’s determination.

  Modesty sighed wearily. She was not looking forward to the occasion, but then every social gathering was nothing more than a trial to be merely endured, since her parents had decided that she should make a match with all haste. All effort must be made for fear that Modesty would otherwise end up on the shelf, an old maid with dismal if any prospects, if too much more time were allowed to pass.

  Yet Modesty would rather remain unmarried, than to wed any of the gentlemen her parents might deem suitable. Older men entering their dotage, widowed nobles with a houseful of children, or impoverished peers who were more interested in her dowry than Modesty herself—a person with thoughts and feelings.

  Georgina Gibbs clapped her hands suddenly, startling Modesty into splashing several drops of tea over the rim of her china cup and onto the skirt of her pale lavender gown.

  Her mother appeared not to take any notice, as delight lit her expression. “I have a wonderful idea! You must accompany the maids to collect mistletoe from the woods. Then we shall hang it in a number of spots around the rooms of Stonebridge Manor.”

  Mistletoe? What would her mother think up next? Modesty shuddered to imagine. Would the older woman attempt to orchestrate a compromising situation to force Modesty into marriage with a man of her mother’s choosing?

  Her mother didn’t seem to have any requirements apart from a title. Would Modesty find herself wed to the seventy-year-old Earl of Markham, who was still in need of an heir after burying two wives and half a dozen stillborn children? Or the widowed Marquis of Sedgewick with his eight motherless sons?

  All in all, the Earl seemed more likely, since that would provide Georgina Gibbs with a grandson who would one day be an earl—and in the not too distant future. Given that gentleman’s age, Lord Markham could cock up his toes at any moment.

  As much as her mother might desire that, Modesty had no wish to be a widow mere days after becoming a wife, to say nothing of her distaste regarding the thought of her wedding night with a man who was old enough to be her grandfather.

  There was only one thing to do in this situation. Modesty had to come up with a means to thwart her mother’s aims.

  She needed another unattached young woman in attendance at the dinner party her mother planned, someone to draw some of the gentlemen’s attention away from Modesty. Her friend, Eleanor Cranshaw would suit her purposes splendidly. And Eleanor would agree without hesitation once Modesty explained her dilemma.

  Later, she left the house in the company of a pair of maids, as her mother had insisted. But after they made their way through the formal gardens, Modesty turned toward the stables instead of continuing on and heading into the woods.

  “The trees near Lower Nettlefold are ever so much better for mistletoe hunting,” she assured the two young servants.

  “Yes, Miss Gibbs,” they responded in unison.

  The first part of her plan was going off without a hitch. Next—once they had collected the mistletoe—Modesty would instruct the driver to stop in at the cottage where Eleanor had lived with the vicar and his wife ever since she’d been orphaned as a young child.

  Modesty couldn’t be expected to journey so near to her dearest friend in all the world and not pay a visit on her, after all.

  As the carriage crunched along the oyster shell drive leading from the Gibbs’ large estate and rolled across the stone bridge over the Nettlerush River, which gave the manor house its name, Modesty felt suddenly eager to finish gathering the mistletoe, so that she could move on to the next step of her plan.

  What is Modesty Gibbs doing tramping around the woods that border on my land, in the dead of an English winter? Felton wondered, as he spied her and two young servant girls amongst the skeletal bare branches of elm and birch trees. He doubted the trio was out grouse hunting. For one thing, it was too late in the year, and he doubted they’d find a grouse within a hundred miles of here. And for another, grouse hunting was generally considered a masculine pursuit.

  Rather than speculate further, Felton moved forward to discover her purpose.

  “Oh, good afternoon, Mr. Banfield,” she greeted him when he drew near enough to catch her notice. “What a surprise to see you here.” Her lips curved up in a smile.

  “I could say the same thing about you, Miss Gibbs. You’re a fair way from Stonebridge Manor, after all.”

  Her smile slipped a bit before she determinedly pinned it back in place. “Oh, yes, well…I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that mistletoe is most likely to be found in trees such as these.” She waved her hand around to indicate their surroundings.

  A surprised laugh escaped him at that bit of nonsense, yet he tried to keep a straight face as he asked, “Is that correct?”

  “Oh, yes, of course.” Her cheeks turned a delightful shade of pink, but he very much doubted that it was due to the chill in the air. She turned to the maids. “Why don’t you try searching in those trees over there?” She pointed off to the side.

  “Since there are no good mistletoe trees nearer to Stonebridge Manor?” Felton asked.

  “Alas, no,” she replied as the two servants moved off in the direction she’d indicated.

  “I’m not sure there’s any mistletoe here,” he remarked. “I haven’t seen any hereabouts. Not that I was looking for it, mind you.”

  “I’m certain there must be a sprig or two around here somewhere,” she persisted.

  What was the clever little minx going on about? Felton wondered. Though stubborn and opinionated, he enjoyed Modesty’s lively nature.

  He suspected he would get no logical explanation for her actions, even if he pressed her for answers. “Perhaps I might help you in your search,” he suggested instead.

  Her expression brightened in response. “How kind of you to offer your aid, Mr. Banfield. I accept most gratefully.”

  He held out his arm, and she placed her hand atop his, allowing him to escort her between the trees as though they were taking a stroll in Hyde Park, rather than tromping through a winter-dead, wooded tract of Berkshire countryside.

  A chill wind blew from the north, rustling the handful of dried leaves that remained clinging desperately to the branches of the trees.

  “Is there any particular gentleman you hope to meet beneath the mistletoe?” he inquired, though he knew it was too much to hope that she might mention his own name.

  “Actually, it’s more of a matter of whom I hope to avoid,” she surprised him with her reply.

  “You fear a certain gentleman will try to catch you beneath the mistletoe and demand a kiss?”

  She steered Felton in the opposite direction from the maids. He wondered if it was a deliberate move on her part, but her next words chased that thought from his head.

  “Several gentlemen, in fact.”

  “Come again,” he croaked, then cleared his throat.

  “My mother and father have determined that I shall be betrothed before the Duke’s—I mean, before Christmas Eve. Otherwise, they fear I will end up an old maid—a fate worse than death, apparently. At least, according to my mother. Even now, she is busy planning a dinner party, to which she intends to invite every fortunate hunting noble for miles around.”

  Words escaped Felton in that moment. That Modesty’s parents had so suddenly decided to marry her off—and with all possible haste, it seemed, made him most uncomfortable. He would almost suspect that Modesty was in a delicate condition, if he didn’t know her any better. But even two years in Paris could not have changed her so much. He felt certain of that.

  No matter her parents’ reasons, he didn’t like the thought of Modesty wed to some other man. Felton deemed few men of his acquaintance worthy of such a treasure. Most would not re
cognize her for the rare and priceless jewel she was, and would instead seek to snuff out her spirit.

  Felton would sooner cut out his own heart than ever cause damage to hers.

  Not that he believed for one instant that he stood any chance of gaining her hand himself.

  Even if the elder Gibbses had not desired a title for their daughter, Felton’s scandalous reputation would prove an insurmountable obstacle to any parent’s approval of him as a suitor for a respectable young miss.

  In Felton’s own mind, he wasn’t nearly good enough for Modesty. Why then, should her parents judge him any less harshly? And he respected Reginald Gibbs too much to go against him, nor harbor any untoward thoughts toward the man’s daughter. No, Felton would never consider pursuing Modesty, despite his strong feelings for her.

  Modesty seemed not to notice his lack of response to her words. “Oh, look there!” She pointed ahead of them. “I see some mistletoe in that tree there.”

  Felton glanced up and spotted the green leaves and distinctive whitish berries growing on a bare tree branch a dozen feet above their heads.

  Modesty removed her hand from his arm, leaving coldness to rush in and replace the warmth of her touch.

  She worried her bottom lip between her teeth. “But how are we going to get it down from there?”

  “Allow me to retrieve it for you,” he gallantly volunteered.

  He moved closer to the towering oak to determine the best course. He feared that climbing trees would no longer be the simple matter it had been when he was a boy. However, with only a small bit of effort, he grabbed onto a branch just above his head, and using his booted feet for purchase against the trunk, he pulled himself up onto the limb.

  “Oh, do be careful, Mr. Banfield,” Modesty called out from below him.

  “I thank you for your concern, Miss Gibbs,” he replied.