The Matchmaker's Lonely Heart

by Nancy Campbell Allen

  “Open your treat,” he said to Clarissa as Amelie folded Alexander’s discarded wrapping paper.

  Clarissa turned to the parcel and unwrapped the beautiful blue scarf he had chosen from a small boutique. “Ah, it’s lovely, Michael. My favorite color. And what’s this?” She reached into the box again and pulled out a small, soft toy bunny. “This must be for Mae.” She shook her head. “Mae, who has been making her mama very irritable today.”

  “Now Mae,” he said to the infant, who rested comfortably against him, “I do hope you will rethink this behavior tonight and behave for your mother tomorrow.”

  A horse neighed outside, and hoofbeats sounded against the street, reminding Michael of the waiting carriage. “We must be off,” Michael said regretfully and handed the baby back to Clarissa.

  “I would love one, thank you for sharing!” Amelie accepted a wrapped butterscotch candy from Alexander. “I must agree, the best kind of treats are sweets. I shall put it in my reticule and enjoy it after dinner. It will be my dessert.”

  “You must have more than one for dessert,” Alexander told her.

  Michael was certain she would politely refuse, but to Alexander’s delight, she said, “Actually, one more would be extra lovely.”

  Alexander handed her another candy, which she took with a smile. She opened her reticule deliberately so he could watch her deposit them carefully inside. “Thank you, Alexander.” She extended her hand. “It has been wonderful meeting you.”

  “You will come back again?”

  “I would love to come back again.” She smiled as Alexander shook her hand. She turned to Clarissa, then, and said, “Mrs. Moore, it has been so nice to meet you and your sweet family.” She lowered her voice. “I shall send prayers heavenward that wee Mae sleeps through the night. I’ve done a fair amount of walking the floors with little ones at night so my sister could have a few hours of rest.”

  Clarissa nodded, looking bewildered, but reluctantly charmed. Michael couldn’t blame her; he’d felt much the same way upon meeting Amelie. He kissed Clarissa’s cheek and bid both her and Alexander a good evening with a promise to visit again in a few days’ time.

  He and Amelie hurried out through the rain, and he handed her into the cab before giving the driver the address in Bloomsbury. He settled in beside Amelie, and as the conveyance moved into the flow of traffic, she smiled at him, misty-eyed.

  “My sister has three children, the eldest of whom is like your Alexander. His name is Dennis, and he is quite one of my favorite people. So, you see, different is wonderful.” Her brow creased. “I do worry for his future, for how he might be treated or where he will go when he is older and my sister and her husband have passed on. But truthfully, the doctor told her when he was born that he wouldn’t live to see his next birthday. He’s now seven.”

  He listened to her tumbling torrent of words and wanted to kiss her soundly. Not because he wanted her to be still, but because she amazed him.

  “Honestly, seeing Alexander tonight has made me hopeful for Dennis’s future—to know that he might have one is a boon. Thank you so, so much for sharing—” Her voice broke, and she cleared her throat. “Your family is lovely.”

  He found himself needing to clear his own throat. “And thank you for saying so. I do quite like them, but I am hardly an impartial judge.”

  She looked out the window at the passing streetlamps, distorted through the falling rain. “A wonderful evening. The crowning jewel will be if I arrive home to not find Mr. Radcliffe waiting.”

  Michael felt as though she’d thrown a bucket of cold water directly in his face. “Do you suppose he will be? Did he say he would be?”

  “He said he would call every night, time permitting. I feel I should still continue to encourage it in order to solve our mystery, but it has been a long day, and I am weary.”

  He exhaled, feeling his own fatigue. “You cannot meet him alone.”

  “I will not be alone. Mrs. Burnette or one of the Wells sisters sit chaperone in the parlor with us. Additionally, Charlotte and Eva should be home soon.” She turned to him, eyes big, and if he didn’t know her to be a genuinely sincere sort, he’d have thought she was manipulating him. The worrisome part was he wouldn’t have minded. Her hazel eyes were beautiful, and looking at them was quite pleasant.

  “I’ll not condone it. Not even from a professional standpoint.”

  “Come now, Detective . . . Michael . . . I know from reading extensively on the subject that law enforcement officers regularly employ the use of informants.”

  “Yes. You, however, are not an informant.”

  “I am a perfectly placed resource!”

  “He tried to kill you.”

  She scowled. “He did not try to kill me. We aren’t certain it was him, and even so, he could have done a better job of it, had that been his intention.” She exhaled. “I will not be alone with him. I do not desire to ever be alone with him. I do want . . . I want him to slip up. I want him to admit to something, anything, even the slightest detail that I can use. Rather, that we can use.”

  “You’re taking this personally now.”

  “I suppose so, yes.”

  “That is the worst motivation for an agent who should remain objective.”

  “Detective!” Her eyes shot sparks, and she took another deep breath. “Very well. I shall remain objective.”

  “Amelie—”

  She held up her hand. “It is late, and we are both tired. Let us discuss it tomorrow. Or later.”

  “I am bound to the office all day tomorrow.” He sighed and rubbed his eyes. “Suppose I forbid this ‘undercover operation’ as your superior colleague.”

  “You did not deputize me. Otherwise that might have worked. My cousins are both occupied tomorrow, and Aunt Sally will be at the Gazette all weekend. My time is my own, so perhaps I shall stop by your office with a report.”

  He eyed her warily. “What report?”

  “The report on my brief tea with Harold.” She grimaced. “I see his carriage there in front of Hampton House.”

  Michael gaped. “He . . . Did he ask you to address him so casually?” Michael refused to see the hypocrisy. He and Amelie were colleagues, after all.

  She nodded. “I did not give him leave to call me by my first name, however. At first, I was feeling peckish, but then I realized it was a wise tactic, on the off chance that men truly do desire more that which they cannot have.”

  He choked on a laugh. “Who is telling you these things?” Never mind that it was true.

  “Sally.” She smiled. “Now, please lean back from the windows so he does not see you when I climb down. He may be looking out of the parlor window.”

  He took immediate offense. “Why may I not be seen?”

  “Suppose he were to perceive you as a rival?” She gathered her reticule and straightened her hat.

  “But I am only an old family friend, so there is no need for concern.”

  She paused with her hand on the door. “A very dashing ‘old family friend.’ Were I he, I would be most concerned.” She smiled. “Think of this as an adventure.”

  “An adventure.”

  She nodded. “As though we’ve only just pulled a prank and are hiding from . . .” She frowned. “Hmm. ‘Hiding from law enforcement’ doesn’t much work in this scenario.”

  “Go, then,” he told her, exasperated, “and for heaven’s sake, do not encourage him more than you must.”

  “Conversation,” she nodded. “I shall somehow get him talking about his wife.”

  He opened his mouth to protest, but she had opened the door, climbed down, and said something to the driver. She smiled at him quickly and closed the cab door. He wondered where she’d told the driver to take him as he heard the whistle signaling the horse. He noticed her hat on the floor as the carriage started moving, but fo
llowed Amelie’s directive to remain hidden. He looked out the back window to see her entering the house.

  She was right, he had to admit as he picked up her hat and examined it. Having her still in Radcliffe’s good graces was an opportunity that might prove useful. He was not certain, however, that it was worth the risk—even with the housekeeper sitting chaperone in the parlor. He looked again out the back window at the empty street as the carriage turned the corner. A knot formed in the pit of his stomach. He knew they were playing with fire.

  Every civilization has its share of secrets. Any time two or more human beings gather to form a community, undercurrents of intrigue or deception inevitably take root.

  —Essays on Human Behavior by Charles Charleton

  Amelie stood in the ticket line at Euston Station and tapped her foot impatiently. The train to Wickelston would depart shortly, and she wanted to be on it, settled, and looking out the window when it did. The woman in front of her was interrogating the ticket master with questions about the train schedule, when she easily could have read the one tacked to the wall. Amelie wondered if the process would hurry along if she began hopping up and down, but for propriety’s sake, she refrained.

  Just then, she spied a familiar figure approaching her at a quick pace. Her heart thumped in glad anticipation, but she also felt a sudden attack of nerves. He would not approve of her chosen destination for the day, she was sure of it.

  “Detective,” she said brightly as he dodged a nanny with a small herd of children. “What a coincidence! Are you leaving town for the day?”

  He towered over her like an avenging angel, and she blinked. “I am not leaving town for the day, as a matter of fact, nor should you.”

  “How did you know where to find me?”

  “Mrs. Burnette,” he ground out.

  She glanced in irritation at the woman in front of her. “You have roughly thirty seconds, by my best guess, before it is my turn at the ticket window. Why should I not leave town?”

  His nostrils flared. “You know exactly why,” he whispered. “You were not to go traipsing about by yourself. We had agreed!”

  “Detective,” she said evenly, “nobody else is able to accompany me, not even one of the two housemaids. My cousins are not home, my aunt is at work, and upon reflection, I did not see that a law had been passed forbidding one from taking a public train to a public place and wandering about amongst other people. In clear view of other people. Do you see what I mean?”

  “Ame—” he began, but was jostled roughly by the woman in front of them who left the ticket window in a huff.

  Amelie stepped up to the window, determined in her course. “One ticket to Wickelston,” she told the ticket master.

  “Two,” the detective interrupted. He reached in his pocket and plopped down some money on the counter. He shook his head when she held up her reticule. “Put it back away,” he muttered. “For the next time you decide to undertake an ill-advised adventure.”

  Amelie couldn’t deny the thrill that came with knowing Michael was accompanying her to Wickelston. Everything she’d told him was true; she’d tried to find someone to accompany her, but to no avail. When she’d reasoned that she could hardly be accosted in broad daylight, in public, she’d decided to go anyway.

  The transaction finished, Michael took the tickets and her elbow, guiding her away from the crowd and toward their platform. They climbed aboard their train, and Michael made note of the compartments as they walked along the narrow corridor. “Here,” he said. He opened the door for her, pleased to see the room hadn’t yet been filled.

  He looked at the receipts and then nodded toward the forward-facing window seat. She took it, and he sat next to her with a sigh. Presumably, if the train was full, they would be joined by four other people, so if she wanted to say something to him, now was the time.

  She glanced at him; he had tilted his head back and closed his eyes. Irritation fairly seeped from him, and before long, it spread to wrap itself around her.

  Her eyes narrowed, and she straightened in her seat. Voice low, she said, “I did not ask you to accompany me, and furthermore, you are not my father or husband or employer. If you are going to behave like a . . . a sulky child the entire day, then you may as well get off this train and see about getting your money returned.”

  He cracked one eye open and looked at her, head still resting against the cushion. “Miss Hampton,” he said formally, “I do not trust myself to speak with any civility at the moment.”

  She glared. “You had best find a way to do it, because we shall likely be joined by others and unable to speak freely!”

  He sighed and shifted in the seat, giving her his full regard. “Amelie, you are going to Wickelston to investigate Radcliffe’s background.”

  “Yes.”

  “You are aware a detective made that same journey while Winston and I were in Marseilles and you were on bed rest.”

  “Yes.”

  “You promised me that you would not do anything foolish, or be alone at any time with Radcliffe.”

  She exhaled carefully. “Do you see him here?”

  “You are alone, Amelie, that is what I see. Should he follow you, no matter whether in the city or elsewhere, you could be at his mercy. He is cunning, and he has set his eyes on you. If he learns you suspect him of crimes, if he thinks you are investigating his background, how do you suppose he will respond? We believe he is already responsible for two deaths.”

  The train whistle sounded, and the people in the corridor hustled to find their seats. Their door opened, and two elderly women and one gentleman entered the compartment and settled across from Amelie and Michael. They gave polite nods, but otherwise did not attempt to converse.

  Amelie exhaled quietly and leaned against the side of the train, looking out the window as they began to move. She couldn’t explain why she felt compelled to travel to Wickelston. She knew a detective had already made the trip and learned nothing, but perhaps he hadn’t turned over the right stones. There was nothing to be lost by her going, and it wasn’t as if Mr. Radcliffe was following her movements, for goodness’ sake. He had told her during tea last evening that he was occupied all weekend with work and would likely be unable to call.

  Memory of the conversation brought to mind something Michael had said about his schedule. She murmured, “I thought you were confined to the office today.”

  “I was,” he said quietly, “but am waiting on several reports—my hands are tied until then, so I decided to make an unscheduled visit to Hampton House.”

  She frowned. “I told you I would likely be out and about today.”

  “It is early. I did not imagine you would already be ‘out and about.’”

  She looked at him, incredulous. “I am a working woman! I rise before the sun each day.”

  He smiled at the trio across the compartment, who now eyed them over embroidery and newspapers. “Perhaps, dear sister, we shall simply enjoy the scenery.”

  Dear sister, indeed. She pursed her lips but turned back to the window and watched the world move faster as they gathered speed. The ride to Wickelston would take just over an hour, and she was determined to enjoy herself. The rocking of the train and quiet comfort of the cabin soon relaxed her, and she allowed her eyes to drift closed.

  She felt someone touch her shoulder and then lightly shake it. “Amelie, we are arrived.” The whisper in her ear pulled her from the depths of her satisfying nap, and she blinked herself awake. Michael’s hand was on her shoulder, and the three other passengers were already on their way out of the cabin.

  “I slept,” she mumbled.

  He half smiled. “You did.”

  She sat up and put a hand to her hair. “You needn’t look so smug. I am an early riser; I simply was lulled to sleep by the rhythm of the train.”

  “Yes. You’re a working woman.” H
is smile grew as he stood and stretched. “I can only imagine what our fellow travelers thought of such a statement.”

  “Hmph.” She gathered her reticule and stood, and her hat fell from her lap. She looked at it in surprise. “But I wore my hatpin!”

  Michael retrieved the hat and handed it to her. “I removed it for you. It was smashed against the wall.” As she secured the hat back into place, he added, “Might I add, the hatpin looks very stylish with that hat. I do not mind admitting I am something of a connoisseur concerning women’s accessories. I helped my mother with all manner of projects.”

  Her lips twitched. “What a good son you were to help your mother. Did she have a business?”

  He nodded. “She was a seamstress. My father passed when I was young, and she often required help. Clarissa was too small, and I was there.”

  Her heart turned over. “Oh, you were a good son. And I am so sorry to know you lost your father at a young age. How fares your mother now?”

  His mouth quirked in that half-smile, but this time perhaps bittersweet. “She has also passed. Fell ill when I was an older teen.”

  She stopped fussing with her hat and looked at him for a long moment. “I am doubly sorry for your loss. I understand that pain exquisitely. I imagine the challenge of helping your mother at such a young age was difficult.”

  “You needn’t pity me,” he said, not unkindly. “Many others experience worse. I had two loving parents, if only for a short time.”

  “You were not yet a grown adult, and you took responsibility for your sister and brother.” Her heart turned over again. Responsibility for a sister who would have needed a mother’s influence as she came into her own, and for a brother who needed special care. She imagined Michael utilizing the skills he learned from his mother to help Clarissa with her adornments.

  She cleared her throat. “I do not pity you in the least, my friend. Rather the opposite.”

  He turned toward the door, but not before she thought she spied a tinge of color on his cheeks. She tamped down the urge to throw her arms around him in a warm embrace.