A Matchmaker's Christmas

by Donna Lea Simpson

  Obediently, Lady Silvia joined the companion at Lady Bournaud’s knee and knelt at her feet. She looked up into the aging gray eyes, examining even as she was being examined. Something passed between them, an acknowledgment that they were two very firm characters.

  “I have been told you are a naughty and disobedient daughter, young miss.”

  “As the life I live is my own, and the only one I have been given, I think it behooves me to be careful with it, ma’am, and not fritter it away on worthless objects,” she answered. “My parents wished me to wed an inferior. I would not do it.” It was simply put, but it was the truth. The carpet, while thick, was not a comfortable place to be, and so she stood. She risked glancing sideways toward the good-looking gentleman, Mr. Rowland, and was pleased when he flushed slightly, and stood.

  “My lady, please take my chair.” He bowed and indicated with a sweeping gesture the red-upholstered chair he had just vacated.

  “But where will you sit, sir?”

  “It does not signify. Please, take my chair.”

  Their eyes met again, and in that instant she felt the truth deep within her. Mr. Mark Rowland, vicar, was a man unlike any she had met before.

  • • •

  Rowland had felt his world shift in that moment, when Lady Silvia’s pansy-brown eyes had met his. She was the loveliest woman he had ever seen, soft brown hair, plump figure, small of stature and with well-shaped hands that moved restlessly as she spoke, like independent butterflies. Her face was round and she had a dimple in her chin, and he was utterly enchanted. But her words, that her parents had tried to match her with an inferior, that stopped him. Was she an elitist? If so, he would know it soon.

  As the others returned to conversation while the footmen set up the table for late tea, he stayed at her side. “My lady, surely you would rather have remained home for the Christmas season?”

  Her eyes placid, she said, “No, Lady Bournaud has hit upon it. This is my punishment, you see, for not falling in with my parents’ wishes. They think to bend my will by sending me someplace they find distasteful. But they do not consider that as we think the same on almost nothing, I may have a very different view of Christmas in Yorkshire.”

  “And what have you thought so far?” He studied her face, the rosy cheeks, the wide, innocent eyes. She was a child in many ways, he thought. Too young, and too highly placed, the daughter of an earl. He must remember that and quell his instant attraction to such a pretty young lady.

  “Of Yorkshire? Oh, but you see I have seen so little yet. Perhaps some kind gentleman will take me on a walk and then I can judge.”

  “I would be honored,” he said, hearing himself before he even had a chance to second-think. He swallowed hard. “I would be honored to walk with you anywhere you might wish, my lady.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Rowland.”

  She smiled, and two dimples at the corners of her mouth winked. I am merely enchanted by her looks, Rowland reminded himself, trying to ignore the stirring of his body and the thump of his heart. That is all. And the physical is so small a part of who we are. I must not forget it.

  But then, of course, he proceeded to forget it, and lost himself in a delightfully frivolous conversation with young Lady Silvia.

  • • •

  Tea had been served and consumed, and Lady Bournaud drifted into a doze near the warmth of the fire. But it was only a moment and then she was wide awake again, though the group likely thought her dozing still. This gathering had been a good thought of hers. She had been too long without company.

  And yet something was wrong. Beatrice had been forced into conversation with Davey, but she was not happy about it. What objection could the woman have to her handsome godson? Beatrice didn’t know him; she had said so. Was it, then, that instant antipathy that she had occasionally observed between two people, the dislike that had no foundation in reason, but was more like the hackles rising on the back of a dog’s neck at the smell of a particular person or another animal? If so, it was only on Beatrice’s side, for Davey seemed properly taken with her.

  She stowed away that thought for later, when she was alone. The heat of the fire felt good on her face, but the ache in her bones would not go away no matter how warm or comfortable she was. She would ignore it and soldier on, because she always had.

  Now, there was something else . . . ah, yes, it was the look in young Rowland’s eyes when he first observed Lady Silvia. He was smitten, and he was not a young man of whims, nor of frivolous thoughts. This did not bode well, and she regretted again that she had been forced by the Croftons’ old connection with François to accede to their request.

  But Verity Allen would arrive on the morrow, with any luck, and then there would be an end to this unsuitable flirtation, if flirtation it was. Verity was the girl for Mark, raised to work hard and not expect riches.

  Eyes closed, Lady Bournaud listened, separating voices in the low hum of conversation. Mark was speaking to Lady Silvia about his parish work as the curate to an aging vicar. Good. He was a poor man and Lady Silvia was a sensible girl, for all her flighty appearance. She would see immediately that Rowland was of a class that she could not stoop to, for all of his good character and pleasing looks. She must trust that, and to Mark’s own good sense. He would not give his heart away where it could not be retrieved.

  All would sort itself out, she hoped, and if not, she would make it work out properly. The next day would see the beginning of her campaign.

  Chapter Five

  It was early morning yet, but the day was frosty, with a few flakes of snow tapping tentatively against the windows of Beatrice’s chamber. She stood, arms wrapped around herself, staring down at the frost that made the landscape look like an ice sculpture, everything coated in crystalline white, even down to the dead flower heads and the grass spears.

  Humbling though it was, she had to admit that Sir David Chappell did not remember her. And she had lied to him, even when he seemed to see some familiarity in her eyes. But if he had forgotten, why dredge up the past? Or was that the coward in her running again, as she had twenty years before, running from responsibility, from accountability?

  But, a sly inner voice whispered, to bring up the past would only be to upset him, especially now, at this time of year. Why bring sorrow to him if he had healed?

  Had he healed? Or was he only good at concealing his deep pain? After all, he had never married again. That spoke of grievous injury unhealed, an open and festering wound still. A man in his position, elevated to the rank of knight through his own service to the crown, surely he would have found a woman through all those years who appealed to him?

  Not, though, if he was still grieving for his dead wife. She didn’t want to think about that, and was about to turn away from the window when a movement caught her eye in the stable yard, which her room overlooked. A rider approached. A young man? Beatrice frowned down at the scene; it was certainly hard to tell from this distance, but it looked like no one who belonged at the estate. She hustled out of her room. It could be a messenger, or a rider from another estate. One of the guests, Verity Allen, the young lady who was a relative of Lady Bournaud’s, had not yet arrived, though she had been expected two days before. Was this news of her?

  Wrapping her shawl around her as she went, Beatrice swiftly moved through the house to the garden door, which more directly led to the stable yard. The sharp morning air hit her lungs like a physical jolt. She coughed, pulled the shawl closer, and hurried still toward the stable, across the hard-beaten, frozen earth.

  “Bobby,” she called out to the stable lad who was in the doorway sweeping the entrance. “Was that a rider I just saw?”

  He touched his cap and nodded, but before he could speak, Beatrice was startled into a surprised, “Oh!”

  From the stable yard strode . . . yes, a young woman. But surely the rider had been astride? And surely . . .

  She moved forward as the girl looked up, and stopped.

  “Is thi
s Lady Bournaud’s pile?” the girl said in a cheerful voice. “I could not get a sensible answer, for all I tried in there,” she said, hitching her thumb over her shoulder. The stable boy was gawking, mouth open.

  Her voice was oddly accented, but her manner was open and lively. Beatrice, speechless at first, soon found her tongue. “Yes, this is the home of Lady Bournaud. I am Miss Beatrice Copland, the comtesse’s companion. And you are . . . ?”

  “Verity Allen. Pleased to meet you,” the young woman said, striding forward and shaking vigorously Beatrice’s outstretched hand. She then looked up at the house and said, “This is it? Criminy, but it is a god-awful-looking pile of rubble, isn’t it?” When Beatrice didn’t answer, the girl shot her a swift look. “Not supposed to say that, right? I opened my mouth again. It always gets me in trouble. Say, do you prefer ‘Betty’ or ‘Beatrice’?”

  “Please come up to the house, Miss Allen,” Beatrice said, bemused by the girl’s forthright, bold manner. “Why did you ride instead of taking a carriage, if I may ask?” she said, turning and assuming the young woman would follow her. She wanted very much to broach the subject of the girl’s apparent arrival astride her mount, but did not quite know how to raise it.

  “Because I am sick of riding in a carriage. London was awful, so hemmed in and so many rules. I wanted to ride there, but my uncle wouldn’t let me. Said I was a disgrace and could not be trusted. But I always rode at home and saw no reason why I should not, now that I am in the country, ride here, too.”

  The girl, with her long, loping stride, threatened to outdistance Beatrice quickly, but by then they were at the garden door and they entered. Beatrice led the way down dark corridors, past the working part of the house to the family rooms.

  Beatrice frowned at her as they approached the stairs. “You have no baggage, Miss Allen?” She stopped and looked at the girl’s ugly stuff gown and heavy wool coat.

  Catching her gaze, Verity looked down at her outfit. “Oh! You’re looking at this awful thing. Yes, well, I save this for riding. The skirt is full enough that I can ride astride. At home I ride wearing breeches, but I have not been able to filch a pair here. My luggage is still in the village down yonder,” she said, pointing out the window to the valley. “When the mail coach let me off, I borrowed a horse from the smithy and told them to send my bags up later. They can retrieve the horse at the same time.”

  “Oh,” Beatrice said faintly. This was the girl Lady Bournaud was intent on matching Mr. Rowland with. She was attractive enough, though she did her best to conceal it with ugly clothes and her hair scraped back into an untidy bun. But she had glossy auburn hair and her features were perfect: an aquiline nose, a pointed chin and an eager look in her blue-green eyes. She was tall for a young woman, but it was hard to tell her figure in that awful dress and hideous coat. Beatrice hoped that the rest of her clothing was more suitable and would come quickly, because she could not appear in that dress at dinner. It smelled of the stable, and that was the least of its sins.

  “I imagine you will wish to tidy up, though with no clothes . . .” Beatrice did not quite know what to do. She was saved by the other woman’s cheerful good sense.

  “I could borrow something from you for a few hours,” she said, sizing Beatrice up. “We look to be somewhat the same size, though I am taller. That is, if you don’t mind. I do want to make a good impression on Lady Bournaud, though you might not think it to look at me.”

  Won by the girl’s infectious good humor, Beatrice relaxed. It was impossible to dislike her, though she was not sure what her employer would think. “Certainly. I think that is a wonderful idea. Let me show you to your room and find some clothing for you to don.”

  • • •

  Dinner was a cheerful, almost rowdy affair. Lady Bournaud did not descend for the meal, sending word that she was feeling under the weather, but would join them later in the crimson saloon, as was usual. So Beatrice presided and found she was becoming inured to Sir David’s presence. As long as he did not look at her, nor speak to her, that is. She had carefully ensured that he was down the table a ways from her, between Squire Fellows and his good wife, Mary; the squire and his lady were visiting, as they often did, Lady Bournaud having asked them especially to make for cheerful conversation.

  She listened to the chatter as she ate her turtle soup.

  “I thought I saw you in London,” Lady Silvia was saying to Miss Allen. “You looked so jolly, but my father is . . . well, a rather stiff gentleman, and I am allowed only so much latitude, you know. But I am so glad to meet you at last.”

  “Time and more we finished wi’ that there Poor Law,” the squire was saying to Sir David. “I be thinkin’ the poor are not the ones benefittin’, but the divils that willna pay their puir lads a decent wage.”

  “Now with all my children gone, I have no notion what to do with my time, so I have taken in some of the girls of the parish, you know,” Mistress Mary, the squire’s wife, was saying to Mr. Rowland. “Especially the ones with no father or mother, poor wee lasses. I am giving them training in sewing and cookery. They’ll make good wives or fine housekeepers by the time I am done, and then I hope to . . .”

  The voices drifted and eddied with little need for direction from her, and Beatrice was at her leisure to observe and listen as the turtle soup was replaced by baked haddock. But the voice that drew her attention most was Sir David’s. It had deepened with time, and mellowed, but still . . .

  “Now with the war over, we can concentrate, I hope, on our domestic problems, like the Poor Law. I would like to see it repealed and some better form of relief invented.” He was speaking to the squire.

  “Yers,” the squire said. “I see we be in agreement, sir. But Speenhamland,” he continued, naming the system of topping up laborers’ wages from the parish coffers, “is a crime, sir, a crime, I say! Only benefits the cheap barstards what won’t pay fer good help.” It was a constant refrain of the squire’s.

  “But we cannot abandon the system without something in its place, you see,” Sir David said earnestly. “We thought we were doing the right thing, back in ninety-five, by giving laborers something more to feed their families with. But the road to hell, as they say, is paved with good intentions. Just before I left London we had that dreadful Spa Fields riot, and I had second thoughts about coming. I should, perhaps, have stayed in London.”

  “Spa Fields,” Beatrice said, unconsciously joining the conversation. “We heard about that up here. How did that come about? We heard that one poor soul lost his life and others were badly hurt.”

  The statesman shook his head, his lightly lined face drawn in an expression of weary sadness. “Hunt, I am afraid, is in it for his own glory. If it were not so, he would not lead men to risk their lives in the manner he does.”

  “You speak of the man known as Orator Hunt, I believe. He is famous even up here. But the people need a champion, do they not?”

  His eyes met with Beatrice’s. “If you consider a vainglorious popinjay of a man a champion, then Hunt is that.”

  “You must see, sir, that here in the north, with little but what we hear second- and thirdhand, we have no personal knowledge. I am merely speculating.” She said it mildly, though her heart was thudding at the quick anger in his voice, a tone she knew only too well.

  “I know that is true,” he said, and there was contrition in his voice. “I apologize, Miss Copland, if my spleen was vented at your cost. But he is a mere agitator, with no idea of how government works nor any real solutions to offer, and I hear too often people sing his praises. It is very goading when I feel sure he wants only to foment insurrection.”

  Squire Fellows frowned and chewed thoughtfully on a mouthful of boiled beef, the remove after the haddock. “Much in whut you say, sir.”

  His lady elbowed him in the ribs, and he glanced at her puzzled, until she made a swift motion that indicated his full mouth. He swallowed hard, and continued. “Much in whut you say, but still, we carn’t continue
, sir, carn’t continue!”

  “But armed bands of men training in your northern pastures is not the answer, Mr. Fellows.”

  “I see you are aware, in the south, of our intrepid militiamen?” Beatrice smiled tentatively.

  “They are powerless, Sir David,” Mr. Rowland said, joining the discussion. “And when men feel powerless, they are vulnerable to any talk that seems to promise a future. However ill-considered you think their actions, they are desperate, and desperate men will do something.”

  “They must hold to the rule of law, though, and not go about alarming the populace,” the older man said. “As a reverend, Mr. Rowland, surely you can see that a peaceful—”

  “They are not alarming the populace,” the reverend asserted. “Oft times the populace is in support of these men, who only want, after all, to feed their families.”

  “Rubbish. They want more than to feed families. They want nothing less than to topple our government. And that is the sure way to the same kind of destruction we have seen in France over the last thirty years!”

  Beatrice was about to open her mouth, alarmed at how the table conversation had become so surly, when Lady Silvia said, “I don’t know how it has come about, but I seem to have lost my fork. Mr. Rowland, could you find it for me?”

  “Your fork? Certainly, my lady, but how—”

  Verity Allen, mischief lighting her odd, blue-green eyes, said, “I think it left with the last remove, Lady Silvia.”

  The subject was turned with the hunt for the fork, and Beatrice sighed in gratitude. They finished the meal in peace, until Verity looked up and her eyes widened. “Criminy! Look at the snow!”