A Matchmaker's Christmas

by Donna Lea Simpson

  His thin face twisted in a grimace, the stable hand planted his feet in a snow drift and braced himself against the ferocity of the wind, which raced down the moor faster than a stallion could gallop and battered his small body. “I carn’t go no faster, me lard. Carn’t help it.”

  “Then go back, damn you, or I shall never find Verity! And I will blame you, see if I don’t.” It was hard, bitterly hard, to hurt the boy that way. He saw it in the way the lad’s mouth twisted down.

  And then a knowing light came into Bobby’s gray eyes, squinted against the blustery gale. “You just be tryin’ to pertect me!” he shouted.

  Damn. Sternly, Vaughan glared at him. “Do not think me so damned noble; I am not. Just ask your precious Miss Allen when we find her. Nevertheless, my boy, no matter what you think, it is true. If I spend all my time worrying about you, then I shall not move as fast as I can alone. You can serve me best by taking back word to the others that I have crested the peak and am all right.”

  The boy stared at him for a moment, swaying in the wind, and then nodded, sharply. “I be stubborn, me lord, but I be not an idiot. Yer right.” He gave the baron directions, and then started back down the moor, helped by the wind. He stopped and looked back, though, before he had gotten more than a few paces. “Promise me, me lord, that you wull stop at the caves no matter if she be there or not.”

  “I’ll promise you nothing, nodcock, but that I will not be foolish with my life.”

  And with that the boy had to be satisfied. He started off down the hill and Vaughan was able to go forward. The landscape was very similar to the night he had arrived, in much this same kind of storm. But now, with Bobby’s guidance, he knew just where he was. And if Verity was in that cave, he would find her. It was a rather dim hope, but it was all he had to hold on to.

  • • •

  “M-mr. Rowland,” Silvia said, her teeth chattering together.

  He drew her closer to the fire and seated her on a brocade sofa. “Come, my lady, you are chilled. Let me fetch you another shawl or a blanket.” He pulled her merino shawl more tightly around her.

  “I shall be all right. But will Verity?” She watched his eyes, waiting for the censure she felt she deserved. As her new friend had wandered, getting caught in the blizzard, she had slept away the afternoon. But Mr. Rowland would tell her the truth, she was sure of it. If any part of the blame was hers, she felt he would help her see where her guilt lay. He had ever been gentle, but he was honest, too, and she valued that as much as any other single trait in a person. There was so little honesty in society.

  “We must trust in our Maker, my lady, and keep Miss Allen in our thoughts and prayers this night.”

  She turned to him, staring deeply into his dark eyes. It had not escaped her attention that he had not really answered. Not one of them could say if she would be found alive. “I know you will tell me the truth, sir. I blame myself for this. If only I had said something earlier, or told Lord Vaughan that she was taking his horse. If this is my fault I want to know.”

  Rowland smiled down at her and joined her on the sofa by the fire. He took her frigid hands in his and held them between his own, warming them. “There is no guilt in your actions,” he said gently. “And this is not a time to be thinking such things, anyway. This night is about keeping our focus on Verity, and asking God to help Lord Vaughan in his search.”

  Her expression calmed, and he felt a surge of gratitude and humility. He could say it now to himself. He was in love with her. No matter how young or how unsuitable she seemed, he was in love. Nothing would ever come of it, for there were still obstacles in their way.

  He was a reverend of adequate but not brilliant birth. He had no connections, nor any money to make up for his humble birth. She was the precious daughter of the Earl of Crofton. And though remarkably unaffected by her noble birth, she would still never be his. But he could give her comfort this night. And truth.

  “Perhaps it would have been for the best if you had broken faith with her,” he continued. “But it was not something you could ever have known. And I honor your friendship to her, and your desire to do the right thing by her.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Rowland,” she said.

  “All we can do this night is wait and pray.” He slid his arm around her on the sofa and she moved into his embrace. He looked down at her, at the dark shadows under her eyes and the tears that trembled on her lashes. He would keep her from hurt if he could, but if that was impossible, he would be there to comfort her if tragedy struck.

  • • •

  Blast the snow! And blast the girl for wandering around in it like an idiot! Vaughan struggled through another drift, feeling his toes numb and his fingers become stiff. Damn and blast and hell!

  He pushed through yet another drift—there were bare spots between the drifts, thank God, scoured so by the persistent wind—and saw a darkening ahead, like . . . like the mouth of a cave! Was that it? Was he close? He pushed on, knowing somewhere inside of himself that this was his last spurt of energy. No matter what he found in this cave, he would have to stop and rest, at least for a while. He carried blankets and food in a canvas sack slung over his back, and he might have to camp here for the night. If he didn’t freeze to death first.

  The wind battered him. It was the sound that amazed him most. He had never heard wind truly “howl” before. He struggled up to the darkened opening, but to his disappointment, it was merely a depression in the rocky outcropping that burst through the moor here and there. But now that he was here, was that not another darkened spot ahead?

  Vaughan struggled on. Finally a cavern yawned ahead. He stumbled and fell forward, and struggled back to his feet, pushing on and finding the mouth of a dark cave ahead. His lantern sputtered and the flame dimmed. Blast! Was it going to go out?

  He forced himself onward, into the cave, and walked up a rocky slope as the snow thinned and the wind abated in the protected depths. His boots slipped on the rock, but he surged forward, eager now for the protection of the cave almost as much as to find out if Verity was there. It seemed too much to hope that she would be.

  He raised the lantern, the sputtering having steadied now as the wind was no longer a factor, and saw something white floating in the darkness, and then . . .

  “Who is it? Who is there?”

  “Verity?” Vaughan shouted, unable to believe his own ears. Or eyes. There she was, limping forward, her ugly brown coat wrapped around her securely.

  “Vaughan? Good God, I can’t believe it is you! You are the last person I would have expected to find here.”

  Sweeping over him was wave after wave, first of relief, then gratitude, then some indefinable emotion he had never really experienced before, with a final roiling breaker of fury. He put his lantern on the rocky floor, strode forward, grabbed her in his arms and shouted, “How could you have been such a blistering, blasted idiot as to go out in unfamiliar country on an unfamiliar mount in unpredictable weather?”

  Then he lowered his face to hers and kissed her.

  When he came up for air it was to find her glaring at him. “You needn’t shout, you know! How is Bolt? Did anyone find him? Is he all right?” Then she wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him back.

  “He is all right, no thanks to you, you bacon-brained, caper-witted blubberhead.” This time the kiss was softer, longer, and when he released her from it he was panting.

  “You needn’t be rude, you pompous ass,” she said. And her kiss this time was no less passionate, but more knowledgeable, deeper and full of yearning.

  There was silence finally, as the kiss inevitably ended.

  “Are you cold?” he asked.

  “Not at all,” she panted, gazing up at him in the dim light shed by the lantern. “Quite warm now, for some reason.”

  “Me too. Let’s go and sit down. You were limping, and I want to know why.”

  • • •

  Chappell paced the library floor. Bobby had long since arrive
d back at the mansion and made his report. Vaughan, gallant idiot that he was, was close to the cave, and that was the last hope of finding Miss Allen before daybreak, they had decided as a group. But for Chappell that knowledge did not mean that he would be easy, nor that he would sleep.

  It was Christmas. The hall clock was chiming the hour, and he decided it deserved a brandy, for it was all that would keep him warm this evening, he was convinced.

  There was brandy in the red saloon, sure to be deserted at this late hour. That was good because he was in no mood to meet anyone. He strode down the hall and opened the well-oiled door, finding that there was still a fire in the hearth, and the brandy was on a side table near the fire. Might as well make himself comfortable there.

  And then he heard weeping.

  He quietly approached the hearth to find Beatrice slumped on the brocade sofa, her head in her arms over a cushion, her shoulders shaking with the sobs that wracked her.

  “Beatrice, what is wrong?” He sat on the sofa and pulled her into his arms.

  She pulled away from him and scooted to the other end of the sofa.

  He tried to ignore the pain that shot through him at her continued rejection. “What is it?” he asked again.

  “That poor girl,” Beatrice said, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand and sniffling. “Will she be found? Do you think she is all right?”

  “She likely is. She is a clever and resourceful young lady, not at all the usual sort.”

  “You mean she is not heedless and flighty,” Beatrice said, her voice dark with bitterness.

  “Oh, she is heedless.” He chuckled, but there was no mirth in the sound. “Aren’t most young people? But it is a condition we recover from and go on to change if we are lucky, and are given the chance.”

  “Yes, change,” Beatrice said, staring into the flames. “Like I did.”

  David moved imperceptibly closer to her. It was the first reference she had voluntarily made to her own life. He moved closer still and tried to take her into his arms again, finding he needed that more than brandy.

  She pushed at his arms. “I do not need comforting. I shall be all right.”

  “Perhaps it is comfort that I need,” he said.

  She gazed steadily at him, and then moved into his arms. He enclosed her, feeling a budding of hope swell and open, bursting into flower before he could quell it. He gained courage from that one simple movement. Something had changed with the night.

  “Now,” he said quietly, leaning back, holding her. “We must speak of something else, or we shall fret ourselves into illness. Tell me why you have gone around for a month with sadness in your beautiful eyes and a burden in your heart? I feel that it has something to do with me, and yet I do not know how that could be.”

  After a long pause she sighed. “All right,” she said, gazing up at him with fathomless blue eyes, the reflection of flames dancing there.

  She reached up and touched his hair, smoothing the silvered temples and touching the corners of his eyes. He felt her soft form cradled against him and knew that this night was somehow going to change everything.

  “I suppose the time has come,” she said softly, “to tell you everything.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Now that the moment had arrived, Beatrice felt a surge of courage. One way or another, her secret would be revealed. If he despised her, then it was how it must be.

  She twisted away from him. She could not lay in his arms at her ease with the story she would tell. She must see his eyes. If they turned frosty . . . but she would tell him no matter what.

  “Long ago, when you were merely an aide in the government and Alexander was just born, do you remember a girl, a friend of your wife’s by the name of Betty Gordon?”

  He frowned and stared into the fire for a moment. “Mmm, yes. I think so. She was a flighty chit, all eyes and hair?”

  Beatrice chuckled, but without humor. “Yes, she was flighty. And worse. She was vain, and silly and obstinate. And her head was turned easily by praise.”

  Chappell’s expression darkened. “Ah, yes, I do remember her.”

  Beatrice felt a chill steal through her heart. He remembered. She could see that he remembered why he had cause to despise Betty Gordon.

  “Betty was flattered by the attention of Melanie Chappell, who was everything she was not: sophisticated, lovely, sought after. So when Melanie became her friend, it seemed too much happiness for one girl.”

  Beatrice went on, telling the story, for the moment, as if it was as it felt, that it had happened to another person.

  They had become good friends, Melanie and Betty. They had a lot in common, though neither of them recognized it at the time. Melanie enjoyed the hero worship of the young, green girl and Betty enjoyed the society into which Melanie introduced her.

  Good company. Fast company.

  Lord Oliphant’s friends were high ton and very fast. He seemed to waver between the two girls, but settled on a flirtation with Melanie Chappell, the lovely—and lonely—young matron. With the experience of years, it was clear that Oliphant had chosen Melanie because, as a married woman, there was no danger of entrapment. The viscount was a wily fox, and had been close to a trap or two in his time.

  He was a known rake and man-about-town, but he swore to Melanie that he was in love with her, desperately in love. She was the love of his life and he could not exist without her. And so they started an affair, though in public Betty allowed her name to be linked with his to throw the gossips off course.

  And she did more. When Melanie asked her to lie for her, at first she was reluctant, but then she saw what should have been a private quarrel between Melanie and her husband, and he said things Betty thought were cruel, though now, looking back, she understood that people often say things in the heat of the moment that are not kind. And he had plenty of provocation.

  And so she did lie so Melanie could sneak away and meet her lover-to-be. Just that once, Betty said. She allowed Melanie to tell her husband that she was staying overnight with Betty at her aunt’s home. It worked, and Melanie raved about the lovemaking with her beau, telling Betty things an innocent girl should never have been told.

  And then she asked again. Betty said no at first; it made her uneasy. But she was cajoled and flattered and wheedled into it again and again as December faded listlessly toward Christmas. Lord Oliphant’s friends made a fuss over her, but she knew if she did not please Melanie and her beau, that company would be withdrawn and she would go back to being the nonentity she was before. That seemed a fate worse than death, by that time, to be cast back into the oblivion through which she had suffered for most of her one Season, her one shot at life in glamorous London.

  But finally Melanie asked her something she was not willing to do. The young woman wanted to go to his lordship’s country house for a week, and asked Betty to lie for her, to say they were going to visit her parents in the country. She said no. After all, David would know as soon as he saw Betty in town that it was not the truth. She couldn’t hide away for a week, could she?

  But Melanie kept plaguing her, wheedling her with the promise that when Betty’s visit to her aunt finally came to an end, that she could come to stay with Melanie in the New Year.

  Betty, silly girl that she was, was in the throes of infatuation . . . but that had little to do with her decision really, and was not necessary to mention. In truth, she was beginning to realize that she must attract someone soon to marry, or she would be a spinster and would have to go home to her father’s house, where penury threatened and life was dull.

  Melanie had a lot more friends who would be flooding back into town in the spring, for the Season. Lots of eligible young men, and now that they were such good friends, she would be introduced to a whole new circle of people.

  The lure was dangled in front of her, and it was irresistible.

  Finally she said yes. She would do it. And so, by prearrangement, in front of David Chappell, she asked Melanie if s
he could please, please come down to Dorset with her to stay, just for a week.

  Melanie turned to her husband.

  “What about our son?” he asked.

  “Alexander is too young to care if his mother goes for a week’s visit. Am I to have no life of my own?” Melanie replied. Besides, he had his wet nurse and a nanny. What more could she do?

  She could stay home and start acting like a proper wife and mother, Chappell said, pointedly and coldly.

  And that was when Melanie flew into a rage the likes of which Betty had never seen. It clearly startled David Chappell too, and by the end of it he would have agreed to anything just to calm her. And so Melanie won. She left the next day, Boxing Day, with her paramour.

  It was an awful time for Betty, who began to understand more of what her friend was truly like. Melanie Chappell did not really intend to end things with Oliphant, that was quite clear. And Betty would never be able to stay in the Chappell household. Not with Melanie the way she was. Betty hid away in her aunt’s house, but Oliphant’s friends visited, and with sly hints it became obvious that they thought that she might be a high flyer, too. Was she open to some fun?

  It was degrading and horrible, and Betty was humiliated. When she rejected one of Oliphant’s close friends, the gentleman said that if she was waiting for Oliphant, it would not be long. The viscount was going to have his fun with Melanie that week, but he would be releasing her after that. The “friend” expected to have his own go soon at Melanie Chappell, as Oliphant had promised to pass her on. And then the fellow made suggestions that frightened Betty, sending her up to her room to hide from any more company. She longed to go back a few days, to release herself from the hideous jam she was in now.

  And then two days after Boxing Day there was a pounding at the door. It frightened the maids, and Betty, afraid her aunt would have an apoplectic fit, raced to the door to answer it herself. It was David Chappell, drunk and demanding to know where his wife was. He had heard a wild tale of his wife, and a carriage accident up Northampton way, but had rejected it soundly, saying Melanie was in Dorset with Betty.