Love is Come (Power of the Matchmaker)

by Heather B. Moore

  Power of the Matchmaker Series

  Copyright © 2016 by Mirror Press, LLC

  E-book edition

  All rights reserved

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form whatsoever without prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief passages embodied in critical reviews and articles. This is a work of fiction. The characters, names, incidents, places, and dialogue are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.

  Interior design by Heather Justesen

  Edited by Michele Holmes, Julie Ogborn, and Crystal Liechty

  Cover design by Rachael Anderson

  Cover image credit: Lee Avison, Trevillion Images

  Published by Mirror Press, LLC

  eISBN-10: 1941145507

  eISBN-13: 978-1-941145-50-0

  About Love is Come

  Nelle Thompson lives a life of privilege during the turn of the century, in New York City. When her parents are killed in a terrible accident, she’s forced to live with her aunt’s family in a small town in Connecticut and is treated as a poor relation with no financial independence. Brokenhearted and riddled with insomnia, Nelle’s health begins a downward spiral. When a locked part of her heart blossoms around her cousin’s fiancé, Mathew Janson, Nelle doesn’t know if she can endure one more heartbreak. Miss Pearl, owner of the local apothecary shop, becomes a mother figure to Nelle, but a fateful summer day has Nelle questioning everything she’s ever believed and wondering if she’ll ever love again.

  Other Books by Heather B. Moore

  Heart of the Ocean

  The Fortune Café

  The Boardwalk Antiques Shop

  The Mariposa Hotel

  Power of the Matchmaker (novella)

  A Fortunate Exile (novella)

  Timeless Romance Anthologies

  The Aliso Creek Series

  Other Books by H. B. Moore

  Finding Sheba

  Lost King

  Slave Queen

  Beneath (short story)

  Eve: In the Beginning

  Esther the Queen

  The Moses Chronicles

  Young Adult novels written under Jane Redd

  Solstice

  Lake Town

  The Gatsby Girls Series

  Chapter One

  1908

  New York City

  “You must come with me to the races tomorrow,” Dottie whispered to Nelle behind her black lace fan, “before all the eligible men take a summer holiday in Europe. They’ll surely be at the races, placing their bets.”

  “That’s just the thing,” Nelle whispered back, trying to look as if she were in a nonchalant conversation at the afternoon tea party hosted by her mother, Mrs. Thompson, and not in a conversation about a dubious outing. “My mother would have a fit if I went someplace so daring without her or Father.”

  Dottie trilled a laugh. “That’s why you’re nearly one-and-twenty and yet unmarried.”

  Nelle glared at her friend—her beautiful, bubbly friend—who’d already had two proposals this spring and seemed to enjoy pitting the two men against each other. Until Dottie said yes to one of them, each man would continue to dote on her.

  Dottie only laughed some more, then she nudged Nelle. “You need to have some fun, Nelle. Kiss a man or two. Come to the races with me, please?”

  Nelle’s face heated. Only her best friend, Dottie, knew she’d never been kissed, whereas Dottie had kissed plenty of men. In fact, she was gaining quite a reputation. It would be best for her to accept one of her suitors’ proposals sooner than later.

  Dottie kept her voice low, but this time she added a seductive edge. “I hear Mitch Barlow will be there.”

  Nelle reached for the teacup in front of her and took a measured sip. She knew she wasn’t fooling Dottie with her apparent calmness, but it was better than letting a smile take over her face. Mitch Barlow was perhaps the most beautiful man in New York City and, quite possibly, across the Atlantic Ocean as well. He’d been absent from the usual social functions this spring. Rumor said that he’d been jilted by a woman in Paris and was nursing his broken heart behind the massive gate of his New York mansion. Nelle would be happy, along with all the other women in the city, to help him recover.

  “Remember when he asked you to dance at the Christmas ball?” Dottie said, striking Nelle right in the heart.

  How could she forget? Her feet hadn’t touched the ground for days afterward. And, with each chime of the doorbell, she had nearly lost her heart wondering if Mitch had come to call on her. But the door never chimed with him on the other side. Soon she learned why. He’d been called to Paris on business and had met and fallen in love with a famous opera singer. The gossip columns had been full of the story.

  And, when the opera singer went back to her husband, Mitch Barlow’s broken heart was fodder for everyone. Nelle only felt increased compassion. He was broken and in need of comfort, not to mention that his social status would work very favorably into her family—old money only grew stronger when combined.

  She was smiling now, and she couldn’t help herself.

  “So you’ll come?” Dottie’s brown eyes were bright.

  “I’ll find a way,” Nelle whispered. “Somehow, someway, I’ll be there.”

  Chapter Two

  “Again,” her father said, pacing from the pianoforte to the grandfather clock on the other side of the music room. “The tempo is slightly off. Can’t you hear it?” He hummed a half dozen bars.

  Nelle curved her fingers above the ivory keys and played the song from the beginning. She knew better than to complain, although she’d been sitting on this bench for nearly two hours. Her father had impeccable taste in music, and he knew what to listen for. Nelle had been playing the piano since she was four years old, which now resulted in many invitations to play at various dinner parties.

  She continued to play the new song, trying to find the right balance between putting emotion into the piece yet creating the tempo outlined by the composer. Halfway through, her father came to stand by her side. It always made her nervous when he did so, and her palms began to sweat. Releasing a slow breath, she refocused on the notes and finished the piece.

  “Bravo!” her father said, clapping his elegant hands. He was not one to hold back praise, although he never hesitated to correct either. “It’s nearly perfect. Another three times through, and you may be finished for the day.”

  Nelle wanted to sag with exhaustion, but instead she kept her posture erect, her head upright, and began to play again. This afternoon was the horse race, and she didn’t want to do anything out of the ordinary to draw attention to herself—like acting out of sorts. She wanted the household to run smoothly and for her parents to head off to the garden party they’d planned on attending. As far as they knew, she would be spending the afternoon with Dottie, which was true. They just didn’t know where.

  As Nelle played the last few bars on her third time through, her father’s hand rested on her shoulder for a moment. This was a comforting and reaffirming touch from a man who didn’t show much affection.

  “Your talent has blossomed, my dear,” he said in a proud voice. “You’ve picked up all of the new pieces I’ve given you within a matter of days.”

  Nelle’s face warmed beneath her father’s praise, and she turned to clasp his hand. “Thank you, Father. I owe it to you.”

  The sideburns on his face lifted as he smiled. Even at the age of fifty, he was still a handsome man. He hadn’t let his form slacken with drink or late nights gambling. As with all things in his life, he lived with precision.

  “When you perform this Frid
ay at our musicale, everyone will be so impressed. Now,” he continued, “I need to speak with you about something important.”

  Dread shot all the way to Nelle’s stomach. She released her father’s hand and stood from the piano bench. “What is it?” Although she could very well guess that it had to do with Mr. Gale Gifford.

  Her father led her to a set of parlor chairs and indicated for her to sit down—a sure sign this talk was to be about her future.

  “Mr. Gifford spoke to me last night and asked after you.”

  Nelle tried not to wince. It wasn’t that she despised Mr. Gifford, but there was nothing about him she could relate to. While she enjoyed music and creativity, he was all about numbers and finances. A year ago, he had been working for the stock market and had made a decent living for himself and his young family. Then his wife died, leaving him with two young sons, who would need a new mother sooner or later.

  “What did he say?” Nelle asked, although she was almost afraid to know.

  “He was very straightforward,” her father said, “as you know he can be.” Her father’s eyes filled with amusement, and that allowed Nelle to relax a bit. Perhaps her father wouldn’t prod her toward Mr. Gifford after all.

  “Is he courting someone?” she asked in a small voice.

  “Not that he indicated,” her father replied. His brown eyes assessed her carefully. “He said he was interested in getting to know you better and wouldn’t be opposed to an invitation for dinner.”

  Nelle covered her mouth, but it was too late: a laugh escaped. “He can be very direct.”

  Her father didn’t answer with a laugh. Instead, he folded his arms and waited out a moment of silence. “Nelle, I married your mother when she was nineteen. Most of your friends are married or engaged…I fear if you wait too long, you might miss a great opportunity.”

  Nelle looked down at her clasped hands. Her father’s words hurt, although she knew them to be true. She did want to marry. She did want a household and children of her own. But, when she was around men, she found herself put off by one thing or another or became utterly incapable of making easy conversation. She seemed to say the wrong thing or managed to say nothing at all.

  She could always speak about music. But unless the gentleman was a music enthusiast, the conversation would die after mere moments.

  “I—I just can’t imagine myself with Mr. Gifford,” she admitted. “Me, as a mother of two boys? I can barely speak my mind to Dottie, let alone guide a child’s life.”

  “No parent feels adequate,” her father said in a gentle voice. Nelle was grateful for that gentleness. “It would be different than bringing up a child from infancy, but I believe you’d be up to the task.”

  “What about love?” she asked. She’d never been so personal with her father before, but she wasn’t the only one feeling the press of her advancing age. “Can I no longer expect that?”

  His smile was kind, but Nelle sensed that he knew he couldn’t really reassure her.

  “Sometimes, we have to make the best choices between what we are given.”

  She understood—she did. But, what if Mitch Barlow was the man for her, and he’d had to go through that heartbreak in Paris in order to see Nelle for who she really was?

  “I will think upon it, Father,” she said. “But don’t unduly encourage Mr. Gifford. I would hate for him to think I’d been deceitful.” She didn’t want to say anything about Mitch Barlow yet, not until she thought there was something concrete to speak about.

  Her father rose and crossed to the floor-to-ceiling windows. The late morning sun had burned off the layer of morning mist outside, and the garden stretched out bright green beyond.

  “You are my only daughter and child, Nelle,” he said, looking out the window with his hands clasped behind his back. “So I do worry about the day when I may not be around to provide for you. If you had a brother, he could look after you and your mother when I’m gone.”

  Nelle had never heard her father speak like this before. Her mother never hesitated encouraging her to consider this man or that man for marriage, but her father had never spoken so directly about his concerns for her future and what it might be like without him in it.

  She crossed to her father and stood by his side, looking out across the gardens. “Father, I am perfectly content. I am not opposed to marriage. But if it doesn’t happen for me, I’ll be happy with you and mother. Please don’t be melancholy.”

  “I don’t mean to be melancholy.” Something in his tone told Nelle he was still thinking of the future. He suddenly turned toward her. “Promise me, my dear. Promise that you won’t close your heart to the possibility of marriage.”

  She was stunned at his vehemence, but she quickly agreed.

  “Marriage isn’t about flowers and love notes and blushing,” he continued. “Sometimes it’s about sacrifice and simply taking care of each other.”

  Nelle thought about the way her parents cared for each other: the small courtesies, the concessions, and the way they did a lot of things together. This was love, she realized, everyday love that created a lifetime of contentment and security.

  Could she have this with Mr. Gifford? She tried to imagine herself as a stepmother—she wouldn’t know where to begin. Then she tried to imagine any sort of romance with Mr. Gifford. He was an angular man with a thick mustache, and nothing about him set her heart racing.

  On the other hand, whenever she thought of Mitch Barlow, her heart had no trouble racing. Could she have a good marriage with Mitch Barlow? Or would she always be wondering whether a more beautiful woman had caught his eye?

  She stared out at the garden and at the changing shades of green as the sun moved across the sky. It was some time before she realized that her father had quietly left the room.

  Chapter Three

  Nelle could practically hear the sighs upon every woman’s breast as Mitch Barlow cut through the crowd of spectators. The horse race was about to begin, so everyone was on their feet, and those in the general area had crowded to the rail.

  The men might be watching the fine-muscled horses prance beneath their jockeys’ firm grips, but the women were watching Mitch, and he was heading straight toward Nelle with a broad smile on his face. It was almost enough to make her faint. Thankfully, she was holding herself up by gripping a ribbon-wrapped post.

  She’d dressed to perfection today, wearing a pale pink skirt and a ruffled blouse along with a short mauve jacket. She was pleased to see that he’d dressed well too. Although, her viewpoint could be skewed. If Mitch had been wearing little more than rags, she’d probably still be feeling faint.

  “Miss Thompson,” Mitch said in his deep, honeyed voice.

  Oh, it had been too long since she’d heard that voice. “Mr. Barlow.” She dipped her head, only to gasp when he touched her chin and tilted it upward.

  “Dottie told me that you needed to speak to me right away,” he said, those lush green eyes of his focused upon her, full of amusement, “that it couldn’t wait until after the race.”

  Nelle laughed, a bit too loudly, and she hoped it didn’t reveal how nervous she felt. “That sounds like something Dottie would say.”

  He lowered his finger, but she still felt his divine touch. Inwardly, she sighed, then sighed again. How could any woman, from Paris or not, turn away from this man?

  “Tell me, what’s so urgent?” he said, leaning even closer.

  The crowd around them shifted, pressing nearer to the rail to see the horses paw the dirt and heave great gulps of air in anticipation.

  “My parents would like to invite you to a musicale at our home on the twenty-seventh.”

  His brows lifted. “Friday?”

  “Yes.”

  “Will you be playing?” he asked.

  Her face heated, but he only smiled. “Yes,” she said more faintly. Everyone knew that she was a frequent performer at musicales, especially when her parents were hosting.

  His eyes held hers as he said, �
��I’ll give you my answer after the race.” His arm slid around her, and he steered her toward the rail. People parted for him as if they were made of water. Before she knew it, she had an up close view.

  The race pistol fired before she had a chance to thank Mitch, and as the horses thundered past, she realized that his arm was still about her waist. She didn’t know what was more thrilling—the touch of Mitch or the incredible speed of the racing horses.

  Moments later, the race was finished, and the crowd was delirious with either elation or disappointment as bets were called in and paid.

  “Did you bet?” Nelle asked Mitch.

  “A little.” He grinned. “Come,” he said, guiding her back through the crowd, past the bleachers, and to the stables beyond.

  Jockeys and their horses were everywhere. As they walked by, Mitch greeted several of them. A few of the jockeys looked Nelle up and down until she began to feel uncomfortable, for they were looking at her like she was…loose.

  Was that what they thought of her…that she was one of Mitch’s playthings? She’d heard rumors—men were men, right? Not her father, of course. Most men lived one lifestyle before they were married and another after they married.

  She and Mitch reached the end of the row of stables, and he turned the corner again. They stopped inside a large barn that was completely deserted and smelled of old hay and dust. Not the most romantic place, but somehow Mitch made it seem very special that they were in there alone.

  Alone. Nelle had never been completely alone with a man—an eligible man who wasn’t related to her—before.

  “Mr. Barlow,” she began.

  “Call me Mitch,” he said in a low voice, turning to face her, his other hand resting on her waist. He moved both of his hands to her upper hips, cocooning her.