A Matchmaker's Christmas

by Donna Lea Simpson

  A carriage accident; Betty tried to sort out what the intoxicated man was saying, but he was ranting and raving, making no sense whatever. At her door, in the confusion, came another visitor, another one of Oliphant’s friends. Not one of the ones who had been so disgusting toward her, but one of the few who were respectable. Betty had never noticed him because he was a homely fellow, and she was very certain, in her youthful folly, that no one could love a homely man.

  White-faced, the fellow delivered the message that yes, there had been a terrible carriage accident and Melanie Chappell was dead. Oliphant was unharmed.

  David Chappell, his worst fears realized, went quite mad with grief. Drunk and angry, he railed at Betty, accused her of all manner of things, some unjust. But some very accurate. The simple truth was, if Betty had stood her ground and refused to lie for Melanie, David Chappell would not have lost his wife and Alexander Chappell would not have lost his mother. Betty Gordon never got over that guilt, and carried the taint her whole life.

  • • •

  “Even to this day,” Beatrice said, gazing steadily, sadly, at David. He had not tried to take her into his arms again, and she knew all hope of that was dead. She longed to reach out and smooth the lines that creased the corners of his eyes and press back the silver wings at his temples. She had been so in love with him as a girl, so absolutely infatuated with his good looks, charismatic manner and intrinsic magnetism.

  Meeting him twenty years later, she found she had not only underestimated him, she had failed to see the deeper attributes he carried, his rectitude, his intelligence and kindness. He was looking at her now, she realized, meeting his gaze as calmly as she could. His eyes were searching.

  “You are Betty Gordon,” he said. It was not a question, but a statement.

  She nodded. “When I began looking for employment I took my mother’s maiden name, Copland. I was so ashamed after that day. Poor Melanie! And poor you and Alexander!” She covered her face. Even after twenty years it still hurt. She took a deep breath and sat up straighter. “I went home, but it was only a couple of years later that my parents lost all their money and our home. I took a job as a governess at first, and that lasted another couple of years, but then . . . something happened, and I was . . . I was let go. By then both my parents were dead, and I lived alone for a time, on the money I had saved.”

  “But it was gone when you came up to Yorkshire for the job with Lady Bournaud,” Chappell said, watching her face.

  “Yes.”

  “In fact, it had been gone for some time,” he said, hazarding a guess. His eyes never left her face. He was trying to trace in her eyes and on her face the silly, willful remnants of the girl he had known as Miss Betty Gordon. But try as he might, he could not recall what that child looked like, or her expression, nor even her voice.

  She licked her lips and said, “Yes, it had been gone for a while. I was . . . unable to find another position until a kind relative sent my name to Lady Bournaud.”

  He waited. The dying embers in the fireplace burst into a last show of flames, crackling and dancing, the golden glow adding color to her pale skin. He reached out and touched her cheek, frowning when he saw her chin quiver. “How could you think yourself guilty for Melanie’s misadventure?” His voice was barely audible in the quiet saloon.

  “If it had not been for my weakness, she would not have been able to go with Oliphant. She would have had no excuse. And for all the times before, her . . . her infidelity—”

  “Was not your fault,” he said sternly, cupping her cheek and wiping the tear trail with his thumb. “Was not your fault,” he repeated more quietly. “My dear, I understand so much more now about that time. Let me share it with you.”

  She nodded, closing her eyes against his gentle hand.

  “I started as a lowly assistant to an assistant to a diplomat. And I was only acceptable in that position because I had gone to Cambridge, and I had only gone to Cambridge because of Lady Bournaud’s kindness. I had much to repay, but it was not with money that my debt would be recompensed. I was driven to succeed.”

  It was a thrilling time, and he really should never have married, but Melanie had enchanted him, and it seemed that if he did not snatch her up, she would not—could not—wait. And so they had married before he really had time or money. Marriage and a child coming had driven him to work even harder.

  But Melanie, young and frivolous, pretty and thoughtless, what had she known of ambition? At first she had been petulant at his frequent absences from home. Then wheedling, then whining and then sulking. After the birth of Alexander her desire for his company had been at an end and she had just cried all the time, hopelessly and helplessly.

  “If only I had tried to be more understanding,” he said, gazing absently down at his hand. He had taken Beatrice’s in his and was threading his fingers between hers. “But I was impatient and hard. We turned away from each other in those months. I had my work, still. But Melanie had nothing. I think when she looked at Alexander, poor babe, all she saw was the reason I had turned away from her. She didn’t understand—and I didn’t help her understand—that I thought I was doing the right thing for our family by working so hard.”

  “I remember,” Beatrice said. “She called your position your mistress.”

  He nodded. “It might as well have been. And so, my dear, with or without you, the end would have been the same. She was lonely and hurt, and she turned to another man to give her what I could not. Oh, I may have blamed you at the time, but not for long, and not now. She would have found a way to be with Oliphant.”

  “But if I had not given her that excuse at that particular time, she would not have been in the carriage—”

  “Stop blaming yourself! There are a hundred and one variables that took her to that spot at that time. If Oliphant had not lived in Northampton, if I had not stopped fighting her about her departure, if, if, if!”

  “You have forgiven Melanie?”

  “Long ago. But only recently I forgave myself, for I carried that blame, too, for long years. A very wise woman told me that I was afraid to let go of the burden of guilt, for it kept me from loving again and risking that pain.”

  “A woman?”

  “A woman who loved me,” he said gently, but would not explain further. “Only since she has been gone have I understood what she meant. That was when I began the journey to forgiveness of my own part in that terrible tragedy. How much less responsibility did you, just a girl, bear in that awful accident? You were silly, you were frivolous, but you were blameless.”

  She sighed deeply. “I hope in time I come to believe that.”

  “Believe it,” he said, stroking her hair. “You have clung to guilt for too long. Let go of it. Now, will you come back to my arms? I find comfort in holding you.”

  The present sadness came back to her then, and her breath caught in her throat. “David, do you think she is all right? I couldn’t bear it if she is not. She is so full of life and love.”

  “She is a determined young woman used to surviving the elements. I have confidence in her abilities.”

  She turned her face up to his as he took her into his arms. The skin under his chin was soft, not taut as it had been in his youth. His hair was silvered and there were lines creasing his face, but he had never been more dear to her. The burden of her life seemed almost self-indulgent now. That guilt, that blame that she had carried around in her heart, had been a way of insulating herself, she thought, against truly living, just as he said of himself. There had been men, good men, who had wanted to love her. But she had carried that blame as a taint and had rejected any tender feelings.

  She reached up and stroked his hair, and when he gazed down at her and lowered his mouth, she did not shy away. The kiss lingered, gently, hovering at first just above her lips, just on the borderline of touch. His breath caressed her, then his whispered words, her name on his lips, over and over.

  And then the touch of his mouth, tender, givin
g comfort, demanding nothing. She was helpless against the flood of tears that coursed down her cheeks as he held her close and kissed her lingeringly.

  For David Chappell it was the last stage. His heart, rent almost in two once, had been healed over the years except for one small open wound. But now it was knit together and whole, the pain finally and irrevocably gone. Together, wound in each other’s arms, they found blissful peace and sleep. Tidwell, as he came to check the fire, found them thus, and, old romantic that he was, tiptoed out of the room and sternly admonished the rest of the staff that no one was to disturb the red saloon that night.

  • • •

  The lantern had long ago gone out. After those first desperate kisses, cross words had separated them. They sat now, in the absolute darkness, close but not touching.

  “Just what did you think you were doing taking Bolt out in that weather?” Vaughan said finally. His voice, tight and angry, echoed in the stony depths of the cavern.

  “It wasn’t like that when I went out. Do you think I am an idiot?” Verity, responding with equal vigor, sounded contemptuous even to herself.

  “Yes!”

  “Well, I am not!”

  Silence again. Verity burned at the unfair accusation of carelessness leveled against her, but a natural sense of justice came to the fore, and she said, more quietly, “I am sorry for taking Bolt out without your permission.”

  “I should think you would be sorry,” Vaughan said, his voice sounding huffy and pompous.

  “Well, you needn’t be an ass about it.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I said, you needn’t be an ass about it!”

  “I heard you the first time, I just cannot believe that any young lady would use a word like that!”

  “I am not like the young ladies of your acquaintance.”

  “You could not be more right,” he muttered.

  She felt lonely in the dark, even though she could feel him, hear him breathe, just inches away from her. She shivered. Now she was feeling cold.

  “Are you cold?”

  “No.”

  “Well, you do not need to snap at me about it.”

  “I’m not.” Miserably, she tucked her freezing hands under her arms and hugged herself. When he had first come, she had been experiencing a moment of terror so profound that seeing him had released the floodgates and she had practically thrown herself into his arms. Just what a conceited popinjay of a Bond Street fribble needed. He was just like all of the other men she had met in London during her disastrous “Season.” All buckram wadding and cotton wool for brains.

  But he had come to get her. And that was after he knew Bolt was safe, so it wasn’t for his horse’s sake. Though she would not put it past him to come all this way through the ferocious storm just to rail at her about her insanity. Well, she had been insane. She admitted it to herself. She had broken the first and second rules her father had hammered into her brain as a child when she had wandered off alone and gotten lost.

  Her papa had scolded her—out of love, she now knew—and told her that she must never go into unfamiliar territory without someone else as a companion, and second, she must never, ever forget to respect nature. She should have seen this storm coming. She should have asked the lad about the weather in their part of the world. She should not have lost herself in that wood, wandering around like a dazed moonling with no sense of direction. She snuffled, wiping her nose with her sleeve, glad now that the lantern was out.

  “Are you crying?” His voice was hesitant.

  “Of course not. I am not some sniveling coward afraid of the dark.”

  “I did not say you were. Why must you make everything a fight?”

  “I don’t do that. Do I?

  “Yes. You are not a comfortable female to be around.”

  “I suppose Lady Silvia is!”

  “As a matter of fact, yes. She listens to a gentleman when he speaks, doesn’t interrupt him with a snowball to the head. And she makes a man feel that he could offer her some protection, or—”

  “Good God, have you listened to yourself?” Verity hooted, her vigorous shout coming back to her again and again in the cave. “She doesn’t want or need your protection, idiot. She doesn’t give a fig about you. Can’t you see she is mad for Rowland?”

  “That dull dog?”

  Verity laughed. “Not my taste, but there it is. She likes him.”

  There was silence for a moment, and then Vaughan said, “So you do not find the broody reverend to your liking?”

  “Never did like the studious sort. Don’t care much for books, unless they are about horses. Not one much for religion, either, though I agree it is all very well on a Sunday. Leaves you feeling peaceful and calm for the week. I don’t often feel peaceful and calm.”

  She was startled to feel his leg against hers as he moved closer to her.

  “Are you cold?” he asked again. “I only ask because I thought I felt you shivering.”

  Her instinct was to deny it, but instead, she surprised herself by saying, “I am a bit. I got awfully wet out there, and I can’t seem to get warm, though I was when you first came.”

  “You mean when I did this?”

  His lips were warm and firm and his arm around her shoulders was strong and comforting. No buckram wadding there, she thought, as she felt that peculiar warmth start in her toes and work up.

  “Yes,” she sighed.

  “I brought some food and a blanket. Don’t know why I didn’t think of that until this moment, but . . . well, got distracted.”

  “Food?”

  He chuckled, a warm sound even in the frigid darkness. She thought that she could listen to that sound for a long time and not be tired of it. They shared pork pie and cheese, with some bread, followed by some wine. It was a Christmas Eve feast as she had never before eaten. Then Vaughan unrolled the blanket and pulled it around Verity’s shoulders.

  “Vaughan, why did you come to get me?” she said in a small voice.

  “Couldn’t rest knowing you were out here alone, cold. Couldn’t just go to sleep.” His tone was gruff. He pulled her to his shoulder and said, “Why don’t you close your eyes and try to catch a nap.”

  She lifted her face and found the warm pulse point at the base of his neck and kissed it, feeling exceptionally bold in the darkness. His breathing was raspy, she noted, as her arms stole about his waist, her fingers creeping across his taut belly as she moved closer to him. This time, when his lips found hers, the kiss was different, longer, harder, leaving her breathless.

  The next kiss lingered, and her whole body quivered when she felt him doing ticklish things with his tongue. Ticklish, but rather pleasant. Her hands found their way under his coat, and it seemed he must be as cold as she had been, for he was shivering, the muscles in his stomach quivering as she ran her fingers over them.

  “Vaughan, we must find some way to keep warm,” she said.

  “I think I know of a way,” he said, his voice gruff and his breath tickling her ear.

  Every sense was heightened with the darkness, and she could feel the lightest touch of his lips on her ear. “Good,” she said. “Wouldn’t want to get chilled.”

  He slid off the rock onto the floor of the cavern and pulled her onto his lap, wrapping them both tightly in the heavy blanket. “Just trust me,” he said. “I will keep you warm tonight.”

  “I trust you,” she said.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Christmas morning, a time for miracles.

  Sunlight, peeking over the looming fells, glinted off the icy crust of snow, making it sparkle like a bed of diamonds.

  But the household slept.

  Beatrice stretched, and in the foggy haze between sleep and wakefulness, realized that something was . . . not precisely wrong, but different about this day. Christmas. Yes, it was Christmas, but there was something else. Another body, close to hers. A male body.

  She opened her eyes to the sight of the ceiling of the red
saloon, and as she turned her head, she realized that she was fully reclined on the brocade sofa with Sir David Chappell sprawled almost on top of her. He looked younger in sleep, his face relaxed into softness, no harsh lines or grim expression. She touched his face, the softened jawline blurred with whiskers, the slack mouth. This would be what she would see if she could have been so fortunate as to marry him.

  Fruitless speculation. She laid her palm flat on his cheek and kissed his forehead, closing her eyes for just a second and letting the lovely sensation of the weight of his body imprint itself on her memory. From this Christmas season she would have this to remember. She shifted and he groaned, pressing himself to her in ways that made her body flood with heat. Some instinctive part of her longed to press back, to shift and let him fully recline on her prone body.

  And then the full force of memory flooded back to her. Verity Allen was missing, and Lord Vaughan too. She pushed him gently aside and scrambled to her feet, staggering as her one leg was numb. “David,” she said softly, bending over him and touching his face.

  His eyes opened and he smiled, sleepily. “Thought that was a dream, you and me,” he said, reaching up and pulling her down for a kiss.

  She surrendered for just a moment, but then pulled away from him and stood, smoothing down her hair. “We have to find Verity,” she said.

  Fully awake, he launched himself to his feet and scrubbed his jawline, the faint hint of whiskers a gray shadow on his chin. “You’re right, of course, Beatrice. I shall summon the men.”

  “I want to go, too. I know these moors after ten years of living here.”

  “You can do no more than I can, my dear,” he said, reaching out and caressing her face. “I was a child in these hills, and a child learns everything there is to know about the land.”