A Matchmaker's Christmas

by Donna Lea Simpson

  And then it was the day for some to leave.

  “It is Epiphany,” Beatrice said, clinging to David as they walked in the snowy garden during a mild spell.

  “Would you like to marry here? In the chapel?”

  “No,” she said, looking up at him. “Lady Bournaud could never make it out there, and I want her to be comfortable. Do you object to marrying in the red saloon?”

  “Of course not. It was where I first proposed, after all.”

  She chuckled. “And I ran away. I was so frightened.” She leaned her cheek on his shoulder as they walked. “I hope my lady will be all right. I hate to leave her, and yet you cannot possibly stay here, I know that.”

  “No. My work is in London. Parliament will be back soon, and I have a lot of work to tie up before then. But she wants this for you, you know that. She planned it, after all.”

  “I know. And she has Mrs. Stoure now. I’m glad of that. The woman loves her and is very good to her.”

  “And we will come up as often as possible. Maybe we can even spend the summer up here. I would like to see that a proper memorial is put up over my father’s grave. What do you think of that?”

  “I would like that, David.”

  They rounded the corner to see the carriage being brought up to the door.

  “Gracious,” Beatrice said. “Vaughan is eager. I suppose he and Verity are ready to go.”

  Verity was accompanying Vaughan, in the company of a suitable chaperone, of course, to his parents’ home. She was to be presented and the wedding planned. Beatrice and David went in through the front doors to find the hall a mass of confusion. Lady Bournaud, from her Bath chair, was directing things.

  “No, Charles, Miss Allen will want that bag inside with her. It is the other bag that is to go on top with Lord Vaughan’s things.”

  Vaughan, his face wreathed with smiles, strode into the hall and leaned down to peck Lady Bournaud on the cheek.

  “Where is your bride-to-be, you rascal? Do not tell me that you two have quarreled and she is not coming?”

  It was a joke about the volatile relationship the two shared, but their bickering had changed to teasing now, and barbed words were accompanied by loving looks. It was not how Beatrice would like her marriage to be, but Verity seemed thrilled, and the pointed exchanges were always followed by whispers and laughter.

  “No, she is upstairs with Silvia, saying good-bye.”

  “I see.” Lady Bournaud’s face betrayed her sadness over her one failure, and the ensuing heartache that was evident in the doomed love between the vicar and the earl’s daughter. “Let them have their time,” she said. “I am happy they have become such fast friends.”

  • • •

  Upstairs, in Verity’s gloomy room, even gloomier now that her cheerful scatter of cloak and boots and bonnets was not strewn over it, she looked around one last time. “I hope I haven’t forgotten anything.”

  “If you have, I’ll bring it with me. My home is not so far from Lord Vaughan’s.”

  “Good,” Verity said brightly. “Maybe you can visit me. I shall need a friend with only Vaughan’s family around me.”

  “I am coming to the wedding, goose,” Silvia said, stepping closer to her friend. She looked Verity over. There was no way to make the girl smart-looking with that awful coat and bonnet, but the radiance on her face more than made up for her attire. Silvia hoped Lord Norcross and his viscountess, Vaughan’s parents, could look beyond her attire and into her heart, for there was no woman in the world who would make their son a better wife.

  “I’m glad you are. I’ll miss you.”

  The two girls hugged.

  “I’ll miss you too,” Silvia whispered.

  “Sil, I wish you and Rowland—”

  Silvia put up her hand. “Verity, please. There is no use. Mark and I . . . there is just no use. We have talked about it indirectly, circling around the issue. He is right and I know he is. My father would disown me if I defied him to marry a humble vicar; Mark doesn’t care about the money, but he would be horribly upset if I could not see my family anymore. He knows how much they mean to me.”

  “But you love him. And he loves you. Should be man enough to kidnap you or something,” Verity said gloomily.

  Silvia smiled, but her eyes were sad. “I understand him. He loves me too much to wrench me away from my family.” She herded Verity toward the door. “You have to go, my dear friend. Vaughan will never forgive you if you make the cattle wait.”

  “I wouldn’t forgive myself,” Verity joked.

  Down at the door, Verity hugged Lady Bournaud, then, in turn, Sir David and Beatrice. At the carriage, Rowland and Silvia, after tearful hugs and promises to write, stood and waved good-bye as Vaughan, Verity and the dreaded chaperone rode off, with Bolt tethered to the back.

  “My parents’ carriage arrived yesterday. I am expected to leave today,” Silvia said.

  Rowland pulled her shawl around her shoulders and gazed down at her. Sadness threatened to overwhelm him, but he would not give way to it. “I do not think I shall be able to go to Verity and Vaughan’s wedding, but he has promised to write me about it. He will let me know how you go along. He’s a decent fellow, though I didn’t much care for him at first.”

  “You mean when you were trying to push us together?” Silvia’s voice was soft.

  Rowland smiled. “Yes, my dear, when I was trying to push you together. Even then I suppose I knew he was a decent chap. Not good enough for you, but then no one is.”

  “You are.”

  “Silvia.” It was a warning. Rowland took in a deep breath and let it out slowly.

  “But I love you.” Her voice was thick.

  “Oh, my dear, and I . . .” He stopped. “I mustn’t say it. It’s wrong. I can’t help feeling it, but I mustn’t give in.”

  “You don’t love me like I love you,” Silvia cried, wrapping her arms around herself. “You can’t, or you would fight for me! Elope with me, or . . . or something!”

  Rowland took her by the shoulders and looked into her tearful eyes. He swallowed, and his lips worked as he fought to control himself. “I love you with every particle of my being,” he said, his voice low and fierce. “Too much; I love you with parts of my heart that ought to be devoted to higher purposes, but even there, love for you has crept in. You are my waking and my sleeping, my dream and my purpose. If I can ever . . . but I cannot ask you to wait. Don’t you see? I’m not ambitious for worldly gain. I shall never be bishop, nor anything grand. Or at least not for years and years. And you have told me enough that I know if we married without his consent, your father would cut you off from your family, from your brothers and sisters, your nieces and nephews . . . your mother. I know you too well to think that you would ever despise me for it, but I would hate myself. And I couldn’t live with the pain of knowing the sorrow I had brought you.”

  “And I could not live with knowing I had caused you such pain, even inadvertently.” She fell silent, but then gazed up at him again. “So this is good-bye,” she said, unshed tears glimmering in her brown eyes.

  He took her in his arms and held her close. “This is good-bye.”

  Inside, Beatrice stood in the window and watched, tears streaming down her cheeks.

  Epilogue

  Beatrice glanced at the date on the letter in her hands, trying to see past the tears that misted her eyes occasionally. “My love, I think this means that Mr. Rowland will be here today. He says that he is starting immediately and is taking the coach, so he should be here any time, do you not agree?”

  David Chappell put one hand on his wife’s shoulder and squeezed as he read the vicar’s letter over her shoulder. They were in the library of Chateau Bournaud, where almost a year before they had confessed their mutual love. It had been a year of change and happiness, and also great sadness.

  The glorious Yorkshire summer had been spent here, with Chappell overseeing the placement of a suitable memorial to his father and Beatric
e spending time with her old friend and former employer. But she had known there would not be another Christmas for Lady Bournaud, and so the word that she was fading fast, when it reached them in London just the week before, had sent them scurrying north.

  They had been in time. Lady Bournaud was still conscious, and when she did pass from the earthly realm to the next, it was holding Beatrice’s hand, and watched over by her beloved “Davey.”

  Deeply wounded by the passing of a woman who had become a second mother to her, Beatrice found consolation in her husband’s arms. Together they found that an abiding love is a port in any storm and a safe harbor against life’s turbulence. Following her ladyship’s last instructions, they had sent out immediately a summons to all of the houseguests who were there the Christmas before, to return to Yorkshire.

  Lord and Lady Vaughan were already there, having arrived that very morning, and Rowland and Lady Silvia were expected any time. Mournful though the purpose was, Beatrice still looked forward to seeing them all one more time.

  • • •

  Rowland had spent the journey remembering his friend Lady Bournaud. The letter from Lady Chappell, as the former Beatrice Copland must now be styled, had said only that Lady Bournaud’s last wish was that he should preside over her interment. He supposed it was fitting, for the ceremony would take place in his beloved chapel on the Bournaud grounds.

  It had been a year of discovery for him. He had taken up his preferment in Loughton and tried to content himself with his duties and his plans. But thoughts of Lady Silvia were never far from his mind.

  The party gathered at the chateau was the same as the year before, he found to his amazement, and yet what changes had taken place! Lady Vaughan, Verity to those who knew her best, was still vigorous and energetic, but she displayed a new confidence in herself and was dressed in elegant attire, selected almost entirely by her proud husband, who seemed to love her more after six months of marriage than he had before it.

  Sir David and Lady Chappell greeted him as an old friend, and after he was settled in his room, the same one as the previous year, he joined them in the red saloon.

  To find that Lady Silvia was also there.

  His heart thudded, but he maintained, or thought he did, his composure. She was as lovely as ever, but paler, more ethereal. Verity was arm in arm with her, and Silvia sagged against her, held up only by the strength of her friend. Pain seared his heart and yet he did not regret his decisions. There was no other choice for them, no way to be together and happy. To wed her would be to tear her away from the bosom of her family, to destroy every hope of conciliation with her father; it would have been selfish and stupid, and he hoped he was neither of those things.

  He got through it somehow. They had tea, and after a time he even found he could breathe again, could look at her without growing dizzy. But she had not yet met his eyes. She was so young, so fragile. He longed to hold her to his heart, to protect her from the buffeting winds of life, but it was not his place.

  Retreating to the library after the late meal in the saloon, he was working on his sermon for the service. It was not difficult. He need only speak from his heart, he had found over the last year. And especially in this instance, where he was speaking of a woman for whom he had nothing but love and respect. The challenge was in keeping it brief and not becoming effusive.

  Tidwell, at the door, cleared his throat. “Sir, the solicitor is here, and he wishes to speak with you. May I show him in?”

  “Certainly,” Mark said, standing and moving around the desk to greet the man. What need he should have of him was not clear, but then maybe the fellow just wanted the library, the desk to work at. He started to shuffle his papers together.

  “Mr. Mark Rowland?”

  “Yes, that is me,” Mark said. He shook the bony gentleman’s large hand and said, “If you wish space to work, I can move out of here and take my papers to my room. Just one moment and I can give you the desk.”

  “Actually, sir, I wish to speak with you.”

  Puzzled, Mark indicated a chair across from the desk. “Please, have a seat then, Mr. . . .”

  “Ballantine.”

  “Mr. Ballantine. Have a seat. What can I do for you, sir?”

  “Lady Bournaud, before she died, asked that I inform you of your bequest in private, sir. Very specific she was.”

  “Bequest? I knew nothing of a bequest.”

  “Yes, well, she knew she was almost gone, her ladyship did. And somehow she knew she would be gone before Christmas. Not the first case of that kind of prescience I have seen.”

  Mark waited.

  The man got out a paper and squinted at it. “Ah, here is the part. Have to make my way through the servants, you know, and the rest. Lady Chappell, etcetera. Now here is the part about you.”

  “Yes?”

  “It is a conditional bequest. Frown on those, myself. Going to leave money, do so with no strings, you know. That is what I advise my clients. But Lady Bournaud was an obstreperous . . . yes, well.” He cleared his throat and squinted at the paper again.

  Mark still waited. A little money would be welcome, he could not deny it. But what conditions would a woman like Lady Bournaud place on a bequest? Puzzling.

  “Mr., ah, Mark Rowland . . . here we are. Mhmm, Mhmm,” he mumbled through some words, and then said, “Here we are. ‘I leave to Mark Rowland, Vicar of Loughton in Hampshire, apart from such furnishings as belong to Chateau Bournaud and such bequests as have been already made, all monetary amounts not heretofore accounted for within these pages, on the condition that he do marry within the twelvemonth.’”

  Mr. Ballantine rose and gathered his papers to leave.

  “What does this mean? What money? And marry? I cannot marry. I have not money enough to marry, and there is only one girl . . . but I cannot!” Mark shook his head, trying to clear it.

  Ballantine shrugged. “Told you, sir, I do not like conditional bequests. Urged her not to do it. But there you are. To receive your inheritance you must marry within the twelvemonth or it will all go to the St. Eustaces. Hopping mad about it, they will be. But there is no challenging it. She was of sound mind when she made the will and the money was hers, quite aside from the entail of the chateau.”

  “I have no intention . . . no ability to marry.” He would just have to forfeit the bequest. He could not marry, not loving Silvia as he did.

  “Don’t you?” Ballantine looked at the paper in his hand. “Let me tell you first what you will be passing up.”

  When he read the sum, Rowland thought he was joking. But he wasn’t, Ballantine assured him; he never joked. The solicitor left, and Mark sat down, very carefully, in the chair. It was a lot of money. Enough to be worthy of one of the elevated titles.

  But only if he wed. Only if . . .

  “Mark?”

  He looked up, not sure if minutes or hours had passed since the solicitor had left the room. It was Silvia, standing hesitantly at the door, one hand on the frame, who had spoken his name.

  “Silvia, I . . .” He stood.

  “How have you been?” she asked, stepping cautiously into the room, her eyes riveted on his face.

  They stared at each other for a few minutes.

  “I am all right. And you?”

  “I suppose I’m well enough.”

  Banal as the words were, there was a depth of feeling trembling beneath them. Did she still love him as he loved her? He wanted to know, and yet was afraid of the answer. And then the meaning behind Lady Bournaud’s bequest hit him in the stomach like a punch from Gentleman Jackson, sucking from him all ability to speak for a minute.

  That was it. That was why the condition. Emboldened by Lady Bournaud’s message from beyond the grave, he straightened. “How was London?”

  “The Season? I did not go. I went from Verity and Vaughan’s wedding directly to my aunt’s in Bath and have been living there ever since.”

  “You didn’t go to London in the spring?”

/>   She tilted her chin up and looked him in the eye. “No. Lord Boxton asked me again to marry him and I said no. Papa refuses to see me.”

  The news infuriated him, and yet there was encouragement there. “I admire your refusal to yield in the face of such obduracy. It must be difficult for a young lady to withstand such pressure from her parents.”

  “It is not so difficult,” Silvia said softly. “Lord Boxton is cruel. I could never love him. I could never marry a man I did not like, or at least respect.” She stopped and looked away, her chin quivering. “And my heart is not my own to give.”

  His heart pounding now, longing to touch her, to take her in his arms, Mark kept himself separate from her, from his Silvia, his love. “What does your father demand of a suitor for your hand?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Are they still set on a title? You are so lovely, so perfect, even a duke would be lucky, but do they . . .” His courage deserted him.

  “They wanted a title,” she admitted. “But they despair of me now. My sister has since married a marquess, and all are so pleased with her, I think Papa would be satisfied with a competency for me.” Sadly she met his eyes.

  She knew he did not even have that, he thought.

  He moved around the desk, toward her, closer, closing the distance between them but not daring yet to touch her, for his composure would crumble. “Silvia, do you still feel for me what you felt last January?”

  Her eyes filled with water and her chin quivered again, her self-restraint fragile, tenuous. “Mark, how can you even ask? I told you then, and I will repeat it now. I will always love you, if I should live to be a hundred.”

  He ached to hold her, to kiss her, to wipe the delicate shivering tears from her eyelashes and kiss her cheeks and lips. He was almost afraid of the need that pulsed through him, the desire to hold her to himself, to have her for eternity. “Silvia, will you . . . would you consider marrying me?”

  Eyes wide, her whole body trembling, she moved forward and put her hands on his shoulders. “Oh, Mark, I w-will, even if we have to wait forever! Even if we have to wait until we are old, I will promise to marry you.”