A Matchmaker's Christmas

by Donna Lea Simpson

  Vaughan put his arm over her shoulder and gave her a shake. “This is not so bad, is it? Staying here?”

  Eyes shining, she looked up at him. “No, this is jolly! Lady Bournaud is marvelous. I’ll bet when she was young she was like one of those old warrior queens, you know, like Boadicea. And all of this,” she said, waving her arms around to indicate the forest. “It is rather like living back home, only with a much grander house than anywhere in the colonies. All I miss is riding my old mare, Feather.”

  “I hear that is how you arrived,” Vaughan said, leaving his arm over her shoulders. She was well matched in height for him, almost as tall as he.

  Grinning, Verity said, “It is! I could not bear to wait in the village while they hitched a carriage and all that fuss and bother, so I borrowed a horse and rode up.”

  “Astride, I hear.”

  “And why should I not?” Her expression earnest, she said, “I think it is hideously ridiculous that women are forced to ride in that unnatural pose! Sidesaddle! I would like to challenge a man to do it without the most unnatural contortions. And they say it is for female health, but I would think that men are the ones . . . I mean for their bodies . . . I mean . . .” Her face flaming, she fell silent.

  Vaughan was torn between the urge to guffaw wildly or draw back in horror. Was she saying what he thought she was? Was she really referring to a man’s private parts in that way? “And what, Miss Allen, do you know about a gentleman’s body?”

  “I have seen my brothers swimming naked,” she muttered. “That is all. It is truly not such a big mystery. Anyone who has seen a stallion knows what men have.”

  Vaughan released her and doubled over with laughter, roaring until he thought his sides would split. He staggered sideways and put out one hand against a tree trunk so he would not fall to the wet ground laughing so hard. Miss Allen stood staring at him in perplexity, but when he could speak, still gasping for air, he said, “A s-stallion. I . . . I hope you haven’t used that comparison to too many young unmarried ladies, or they will be sorely disappointed at male dimensions on their wedding night!”

  Catching the joke, Verity laughed too. “I never thought of it that way! Lord, and that is what I told my cousins, one of whom is getting married in the spring. Do you suppose I should write her a letter to let her down easily?”

  “Let her down? Rather free her from horror! I mean, imagine if you will . . . no,” he said, putting up one hand. “Perhaps I had better not pursue that train of thought even with you, outrageous female though you are. But no, I cannot imagine how you would broach that subject in a letter, and what would happen if it fell into the wrong hands? Better let well enough alone,” Vaughan said, staring at the girl before him and shaking his head. “Miss Allen, you truly do amaze me. I have never met anyone like you.”

  They walked on and caught up with Bobby and went about the business of gathering heavily scented evergreen boughs for the Bournaud house. Vaughan did not even think about the fact that he could not care less where Rowland and Lady Silvia had disappeared to, so caught up was he in their operation.

  But there was a subconscious thread to his thoughts that he was barely aware of as he laughed and talked with Miss Verity Allen, self-consciousness between them broken down irrevocably.

  Marriage. He wanted to get married, oddly enough. He had been something of a rake for years now, though he had never hurt anyone, nor had he ever abandoned a woman, nor impregnated one. Very lucky he had been, but mostly because he had consorted with more knowledgeable women, ones who knew how to handle such matters. He was not a seducer of innocents, and so, though he could quite easily see Miss Allen as an enticing conquest, he now acknowledged that as unsophisticated and naive as some of her conversation had proved her to be, she was not a fit target for seduction.

  But back to marriage; he now thought that he had entered a time of his life when a wife and children was something to be desired, not something to be avoided. He was thirty-three, and if he was to have children he wanted them soon, while he could enjoy them the way his father had. For the Viscount Norcross had been a good father, imbuing his son and heir with a love of the outdoors and outdoor pursuits. They had, together, fished, hunted, rode and drank, and the elder had taught him much about moderation in all such pursuits.

  His mother he had seen less often. She and his father lived separate lives in many ways, with different friends, different pursuits, different interests. It was how he saw his own future marriage; he and his wife as partners in bearing and raising children, but with necessarily much different lives beyond that.

  He paused in the act of hacking a branch from a fir and watched Miss Allen throw a snowball at Bobby, and receive in return a chilly face-washing. What a woman! He could see her as a friend, a companion in many pursuits. Her life in Canada had been rough and tumble, partly because of the nature of the country, but partly because of her family life, being raised with brothers. She hunted, fished, rode splendidly . . . not the attributes he had ever thought attractive or desirable in a woman. She had canoed silver streams, hiked through primeval forests . . . what would it be like to go through life with a woman like that? Did she want to marry? What kind of mother would she make?

  He pushed away those thoughts, horrified by them. As a wife, Verity Allen would be a failure. He could not see her deferring to her husband, nor would she stay home quietly while he was off enjoying himself. No, she would make a fellow an uncomfortable wife.

  But perhaps she could tell him more about Canada, because, if he was honest with himself, it sounded like the kind of place he would like to see. As his father’s heir he had been circumscribed by his duties from entering the army when he had wanted to. As a result, he longed for adventure, for something beyond the rake’s routine of London Seasons and house parties and hunting frightened foxes. Miss Allen had met wolves, hunted for bear, ridden through the wilderness. She had learned the language of the natives of her country and had lived among them. She was not genteel, but she certainly was not boring, either.

  He threw the branch on the pile on the sledge and said, “I think we have enough. If you two infants will stop gamboling, we can find the main path and go back to the house.”

  The two reluctantly gave up their snowball fight and called a truce, for the time being. They trudged through the snow toward the main path, found it, and started out toward the edge of the woods, their coats and boots sopping wet from the melting snow.

  “We shall probably find Rowland and Lady Silvia back at the house sipping tea.” Oddly, he did not envy Rowland his company for the afternoon. He had thoroughly enjoyed the outing.

  Chapter Twelve

  “Yes, I think the evergreen boughs along the stair railing will do,” Lady Silvia said, holding a twisted evergreen garland up to the oak. “What do you think, Miss Allen?”

  The young woman shrugged. “I guess it is fine.”

  Once they had returned from their expedition, they had begun to decorate the manse with their findings. With some coaxing the gentlemen had agreed to help, but only in the actual physical labor. A table had been hauled into the great hall, and the evergreens and ribbons piled on top.

  Lady Silvia stood, hands on hips, and said, “Am I the only one who is to decide where things go?” She glared at Miss Allen. She had expected that the only other young lady would be of some help.

  But Verity was sitting at the table frowning down at the mess she held in her hands. “I cannot do this,” she said.

  “What are you trying to do, Miss Allen?” Rowland stood behind her and looked at the item in her hands.

  “It is supposed to be a kissing ball,” she said, blushing for some reason. “But it is lopsided.”

  Vaughan laughed out loud. “Yes, well, look who is making it.”

  “What do you mean by that?” Verity said.

  “I mean, you are the most unartistic female I have ever seen. I would bet that you do not paint or sketch or net or even do needlepoint.”

>   Stung, Verity threw down the mess of glossy greenery and white berries that she had been trying to fashion into a circle. “There is precious little need for a painted screen or a netted purse where I live, Lord Vaughan.”

  She said his name like an insult, emphasizing the “Lord” appellation, and he frowned. “Then why are you even attempting this?” he said, grabbing and shaking her sad creation. “Suddenly fixated on kissing?”

  She colored, and he felt for a moment as though he had hurt her with his casual and brutal reference to her odd behavior in the bush that afternoon. But that was ridiculous. It was quite clear to him that she had no normal feminine feelings.

  “Not at all,” she said, summoning all her dignity. She sat up straight, a strangely regal creature. “I am doing this because my mother told me so much about her childhood in England. I just wanted to experience it as she had.” She looked down sadly at the monstrosity in her hands. “But you are right. I have no artistic ability. I have made an abominable mess of this.” She held it up pathetically and sent a beseeching look toward Lady Silvia. “Can you help me?”

  Vaughan felt an unwelcome tug at his heart at the pain he had caused her. Dammit, he did not feel anything at all for her but a reluctant sort of liking for her gallant nature and vigorous sense of fun. Fighting the urge for a moment, he finally gave in. “Oh, for God’s sake, it is easy. Look,” he said, sitting down beside her. “It can be fixed if we just add some more of the mistletoe here, and stick some kind of a red bow there in that bald spot.”

  Her brilliant eyes shining, she gazed up into his face with admiration. “I think you can do anything you set your hand to, Vaughan.”

  He shrugged off the compliment, but it left a warm spot in his heart, and he affectionately nudged her with his shoulder. “Come on. Let us make more of these. You said you wanted one for the red saloon, one for the gold, and one for the servants’ hall, did you not?”

  • • •

  The morning was wending its way onward. “Have you always done this for Lady Bournaud?”

  Beatrice, with a neat apron over her navy sarcenet dress, stood at a table in the pantry where the tea chest was kept. It was a large, elaborately carved monstrosity made of dark wood with numerous drawers, all of them locked. The keys were on her own key ring, and she was the only one with such access to the valuable resource. She glanced over at Lady Silvia, who stood at her elbow watching and asking questions.

  “No, not at first. When I first came here Lady Bournaud had a housekeeper, but she was getting on in years and became ill. Lady Bournaud pensioned her off and she went to live with a sister in the village. She died just two years ago.” Beatrice took a scoop of the bohea and mixed in a little China, and then put it in the box the cook would retrieve and take to the kitchen. This was the servants’ blend, and very generous Lady Bournaud was thought, too, to give the staff real tea—and with some China, too!—and not the secondhand leaves. “I took over her duties. It is a modest household and not an onerous task.” She took another handful of China and put it in a porcelain bowl. She mixed in some hyson, then added some of the cheaper bohea, a smaller amount this time.

  “What are you doing? Why do you put different kinds of tea leaves together?”

  The pantry was dark and chilly and Beatrice frowned, wondering why Lady Silvia was suddenly so interested in a housekeeper’s work. “The China tea, this lovely dark leaf, is very expensive,” she said, holding up one leaf fragment. “It is fermented until it is ready, and is from a very good supplier. Lady Bournaud is generous with the household expenses and likes a good cup of tea, but still we mix with the less expensive blends.”

  “Can one tell the difference?”

  Beatrice took a pinch of each type and said, “Hold out your hands.” She dropped the leaves in the girl’s cupped hands. “Now, smell each one.”

  The young woman complied, and a look of understanding crossed her smooth face. “I see. This has a much . . . I don’t know how to explain it, but it smells nicer,” she said, holding up the hand with the China tea in it.

  “So the trick is to keep all the lovely properties of the China, blending it with the less expensive varieties.”

  “Is this what a wife would be expected to do if her husband was of a modest income, say a tradesman perhaps, or . . . or maybe a vicar?”

  Beatrice did her best to conceal a smile. So, that was the child’s intention. She could not help but honor so sensible an approach to her future. If Lady Silvia truly was considering marriage to Mark Rowland, then learning how to take care of his home was important, though not many young women would think of it while in the early stages of love. She gazed over at the girl for a moment and then said, “Why don’t you do some of this? We’ll work together. And then I need to count the linens for the guest rooms and confer with Cook about dinner.” This was her daily work, a comforting routine of housekeeper’s chores.

  “Do you mean you will give me a few household lessons, Miss Copland? I would appreciate it. My education so far, I fear, has been sadly lacking. My mother wanted me to learn only those accomplishments that would make me popular with the gentlemen.”

  “Certainly,” Beatrice said. “Now, this in the porcelain bowl,” she said, stirring with a wooden spoon the dark leaves and the lighter bohea, “will be the brew we serve at tea. For Lady Bournaud I mix a special batch for her late-night tea, with some chamomile to help her sleep.”

  They worked together for a few minutes, Beatrice talking occasionally about one aspect or another of tea ordering, how to tell if you were getting a bargain on leaves, and where to get the best. She took a spray of dried herbs that hung from a nail—dried chamomile, she told the girl beside her—and stripped the leaves off, talking about collecting herbs from the garden for their properties brewed as tea, as well. Lady Silvia was attentive and asked intelligent questions, proving an apt student. But gradually conversation turned to more personal matters.

  “I know it is impertinent,” Lady Silvia said, taking over the task of stripping the dried leaves from the woody stalk, careful, as Beatrice had showed her, not to crush the leaves prematurely and lose the essential oils. “But I am so curious. Why did you never marry?”

  “I never had the opportunity,” Beatrice said. “My family lost its money and I had to go out to work; I am afraid that made me quite unmarriageable.”

  “But Sir David seems quite taken with you.” The girl’s mild brown eyes glittered with interest in the dim light from the wall sconce. “Have you considered marriage now?”

  Beatrice closed a drawer of the tea chest with a slam and locked it. “Tea is quite expensive, which is why it is kept locked. It is not that we do not trust our serving staff, but . . . well, this has always been done this way. I guess that is its explanation.”

  Lady Silvia gazed steadily at her without comment.

  Beatrice turned and with a bright smile said, “I have heard that your Christmas trip here is some form of punishment. Have you found it thus so far?”

  Taking the hint, the girl allowed the subject to drop. “No, I really am much more fond of quiet living than of London, but I could never make my mother understand that. Finally, when they wanted me to marry Lord Boxton and I said no, she became angry and my father, too. He said if I did not agree to an engagement, I would be sent away.”

  “Was Lord Boxton so horrible?” Beatrice carried some of the tea in a bowl out to the kitchen and nodded pleasantly at the scullery maid, who was peeling potatoes for the evening meal’s ragout. The scent of rosemary and thyme filled the air from the bouquet garni the cook used to flavor the meat for the stew.

  Lady Silvia followed, her pretty face pinched in a scowl. “I know some people would think he was perfect, and he always treated me well, but . . .” She sat down on a high stool pulled up to the floury pastry table. “I’ll tell you why I will never marry Lord Boxton. I have told no one, but you are unlikely to be in London any time soon, and besides, I know I can trust you.” She said it
simply, with a nod, as she brushed flour into a pile. “There is a fellow, his name is . . . well, people call him Daft Willie. He is sweet and kind, and we have become friends. He is not someone you would turn to for conversation, but Willie is good-natured and accepts people as they are. I like that, for it is a trait seldom discovered, especially in London during the Season. He is exceptionally well born, which is the only reason my mother lets me near him.”

  Her expression changed, the brown eyes becoming hard and glinting like dark marble. “Lord Boxton and his . . . his friends set up poor Willie so that he somehow ended up in a ballroom during the premiere occasion of the Season n-naked except for his boots. I am not supposed to know it was Boxton who tricked him into it, for Willie did not tell me. If anyone found out I knew, they would think he did tell, and Boxton would make him suffer for it. I only know because I overheard Boxton and his despicable cronies laughing about it after, and making fun of Willie’s . . . his anatomy.” Her voice was shaking with anger and tears rose into her eyes. “Willie is pudgy, you see, and . . .”

  Beatrice sat down beside her and laid one calming hand on the girl’s shoulder.

  Lady Silvia steadied her voice, looked up at Beatrice, and said, “How could I marry someone like that? He thought it was funny. And poor Willie does not even realize that it was meant as a torment. He thinks Boxton is his friend. I was overjoyed to leave London. It is a cruel place, and the young men there are a breed apart, who think it is entertainment to ‘box the watch’—in other words, to pummel old men who are only trying to do their job. I hate it. Boxton himself I have seen kick a dog, and I know he beats his horse if the steed does not instantly obey. He is beneath contempt. I loathe him.”

  And that explained her attraction to the gentle Mr. Rowland, and the possibility of a life as wife to a man like that. Beatrice slipped off the stool, got some hot water from the kettle on the fire, and made a pot of tea, adding extra leaves to make it strong. “You did the right thing, my dear. Marriage is so close a bond, a woman must suffer if her husband is cruel, even if he never inflicts his cruelty on her. Now, let us go through some of the household accomplishments a young woman might need as wife to a man of modest means,” she said. They spent the next hour in such a lesson, and Beatrice promised, at the end of it, to meet Lady Silvia the same time the next day for more.