“Straight from the Word of God, and not merely from my lips. The way to be saved is to repent, to turn away from one’s sins and believe in Christ alone as your Savior from sin through His death on the cross.” The sound of deep conviction gave the minister’s words gravitas.
Oh, how sweet would be peace with God, but he found it hard to accept the offered grace. He blurted out the thought that hampered him. “I could never be that good, Mr. Cleaver.”
“It is not us who are good, sir. The Bible says that left to ourselves, no one is righteous, no one.”
Mark protested. “Then why try?”
“Once we repent and believe, though, we can change with God’s help. He helps us to do any bit of good, and as we go on in life, He makes us over into a new person.”
“Even me?”
“Yes, you. In other words, only with His aid,” the minister pointed upwards with his index finger, “do we get better from the sin-sick, sorry state of spiritual death we are in without him. So, don’t let your sinful condition stop you from trusting God.” Mr. Cleaver sat back and crossed his legs, as calm as if he were discussing the weather.
“Plenty to think on.” Mark crossed his arms across his chest and closed his eyes.
“I shall pray for you now. Try to follow along with me.” Mr. Cleaver leaned forward, folded his hands, and bowed his head. “Dear Lord, please accept this man’s sorrow over his sins. Please take him as one of Your own and cleanse him from his transgressions. Give him the gift of faith. Change his heart and transfer him from darkness to the light. And bless all Lord Russell’s days so he can live to serve You out of gratitude.”
“Amen.” Mark stood and stepped to a nearby wall mirror. For the first time in too long, he could look himself in the eye. The shame of his former life slipped away and the weight of self-doubt fell off his shoulders. With God’s help, maybe he’d do his title justice, and find peace in the process. “We’ll have to see what God does with someone like me.”
11
The day to interview the candidates for companion arrived. The choice was to be Melissa’s own. With this courtship scheme of her father’s hanging over her, she needed a confidant. Occupied with grief for her mother, the full impact of her solitude hadn’t hit her right away. But now, even though busy, loneliness rose up against her.
The agency lined up five candidates to be interviewed this morning. The first interviewee waited in the hall. Melissa rang the bell. This pre-arranged signal brought the butler to the sitting room door. “Miss Dickson,” he intoned.
A woman dressed all in dreary grey and black glided into the room on silent feet. Melissa bade her to sit and offered tea. Drinking tea together was meant to warm up the interaction and give Melissa a sense of each candidate’s personality.
Miss Dickson trembled as she accepted the tea, and she proceeded to clutch it on her lap with two hands during the entire interview.
In an attempt to set the woman at ease, Melissa took a sip and chattered of nonessentials for a few minutes before she asked her first question. “Miss Dickson,” she glanced down at her notes to make sure of the name, “tell me about your faith.”
The woman’s wispy eyebrows flew up, and she rushed to answer. “I believe in faith. I go to services as a rule. Every Sunday as a lifelong habit—if I can. It’s my tradition.”
“Faith is a blessing, Miss Dickson, would you say?” Melissa set down her cup.
“My traditions comfort me.” The woman trailed off.
Melissa waited for more, making an encouraging expression. With nothing more forthcoming from dreary Miss Dickson, Melissa decided to move on to the next candidate. One requirement for the companion was that she be a sincere believer.
The next candidate wore a brown dress with a shabby brown pelisse. The butler announced this one as, “Mrs. Croft.”
After she served the woman a cup of tea, she began to question. “Mrs. Croft, tell me about your previous experience.” Melissa glanced at her notes, which told her the woman was a widow.
The shabby vertical feather on the woman’s hat quivered as she spoke. “Aye. My last situation was with the first Mrs. Croft. She died and Mr. Croft, he took a fancy to marry me. Now he’s dead and I’s at loose ends.”
The way the woman presented herself didn’t sit well with Melissa, so she only asked a few more courtesy questions. Would the next candidate wear all green?
The next two candidates proved uninspired, too. These two were garbed in a mix of colors, unlike the first two. But with one a flibbertigibbet a mere two years older than Melissa, and the other so ancient as to be hard of hearing, missing most of Melissa’s questions, neither fit the position.
Patience and hope were now in short supply, the morning having turned into an unexpected trial. She rang the bell for the last candidate of the day.
“Miss Dean.” The butler ushered in a spry middle-aged woman. She wore a cloak of good fabric dating from the last century. Her tentative smile held a friendly reserve Melissa liked.
She served the requisite tea before the questions and answers commenced. “Do you go to church?” She started right out with an attempt to discern Miss Dean’s faith.
“Oh yes.” Miss Dean’s eyes lit up. “I love going to God’s house. My life would be dross without him.” She lifted two fingers to her lips and shot a worried glance at Melissa.
“Wonderful. Tell me more about yourself, Miss Dean. Do you enjoy needlework?” Melissa smiled encouragement to the best candidate of the morning.
“Oh my. Yes. I’m an inveterate knitter. I also make lace and embroider.” The woman visibly relaxed and gave an abbreviated history of her life with her minister father who’d recently passed away. “And that brings me to now. I am alone in the world and thought a position as companion to a young lady suitable to my abilities.”
The two launched into an enjoyable discussion in which Melissa learned all she needed about Miss Sarah Dean.
“I shall contact the agency immediately. You’re hired.” Her protracted solitude caused by her father’s angry dismissal of Miss Cleaver was over. At his lowest ebb, he’d lashed out bitter words at the governess, chastising her for her steadfast faith. Melissa breathed a sigh of relief. Miss Dean accepted the position and agreed to move in that afternoon.
Interviews over and companion hired, Melissa’s worry bloomed anew about her father’s scheme. Her fears mounted by the hour. The day was coming, however, when she was certain he would force the next phase of his plans.
12
Melissa’s expert management of the Southwood household continued. She also partook of typical feminine pursuits. But not content to fritter away her whole life with fashion, embroidery, sketching, watercolor painting, and poetry, she took an active interest in charity work and read the Bible and other literature. Even with all this, however, she was not fulfilled. Her life consisted of an endless stretch of days.
At least Papa shared his plans of what was to come—giving fair warning. She must be grateful for small favors. As she sat alone in the private sitting room off her bedroom, she tried to convince herself of the plausibility of her father’s plan to find an acceptable or even admirable man to put forward as a match.
Reality’s touch was sometimes harsh and full of unexpected difficulties and obstacles. What if no natural affection flourished between her and the aristocrat her father planned to proffer? Would the man share her depth of faith? Questions circled in her mind until she decided she mustn’t belabor the dilemma. Worry didn’t profit.
A tap came upon her door. The upper housemaid handed her a note which contained a request for her to attend her father in his study in five minutes. Nervous, Melissa checked her appearance in the mirror. She scolded her shaking knees, straightened her shoulders, took several deep breaths, and descended the stairs to meet with her father.
She entered the massive oak-laden library and immediately observed her father’s normally cheery countenance wore a guarded mask. She wondered at the r
eason.
She stood before him, hands clasped on one hip. “Papa, here I am. Is there news of your scheme—I mean plan—to find me a husband?”
“Dear girl, must you be so direct? The nobility requires more discretion in their females. When I deem it, you will learn all.” Mr. Homer Southwood hated to lose control of any meeting.
He tugged at his collar and ran a finger around the offensive neckpiece. “My valet can’t tie a simple knot.”
This avoidance maneuver did not deter Melissa.
She flung out a hand in entreaty. “Papa, please relieve my suspense. Have you decided on the man or not?”
“The answer is yes, Melissa. The investigation of your suitor is complete. His name is Lord Peter Winstead. Sources brought to my attention his amenability to marry, outside the ton if necessary, to restore his fortunes, diminished by unavoidable family circumstances which were no fault of his own. His estate is called Honor’s Point and is reputed to be a garden spot of beauty. Thus, I asked you to attend me here, daughter. He is to call on us this afternoon at four o’clock.”
“On us?” Melissa inquired as she sank into an armchair across from the desk.
“Yes. First, he will appear before me here in my library. In fact, I myself shall interview Lord Winstead to confirm his suitability, followed by him either crossing the hall to meet you or being sent out the front door.”
Nervous, yet somewhat reassured by this statement, she smoothed her hair with the tips of her fingers. She hoped her father didn’t allow his blind ambition to rule him to the extent that he would abandon proper discretion even further.
Melissa chose an attitude of suspended opinion until she got a gander of the man and an opportunity to evaluate him. Her father’s ambition blinded him to other, softer considerations. She kneaded her temples.
The thought of being married for her family’s fortune didn’t appeal even though in this day and age it occurred quite often in the upper reaches of society. Fortunes, property, and titles were joined thus, and not a lot different from a business deal in many instances. Love and respect for one’s spouse didn’t form the basis of the average upper-class marriage.
“Tell me what you learned, please, Papa. I am curious about a man who would, in essence, sell himself.” Melissa leaned back in the comfortable armchair.
Mr. Southwood didn’t answer immediately but swiveled in his chair to gaze out the window onto the attractive, small side yard—thirty feet wide or so— generous by London townhouse standards.
Melissa supposed he was weighing how much to reveal to her and what matters to leave unsaid. She knew him well and could read him like a book.
While her father’s gaze was off her, Melissa closed her eyes. God, I put this whole situation into your hands. Please help me respond to this trial reflecting Christ’s love.
When her father started speaking, she sat up straighter so as not to miss a word.
“He’s not got a lot of blots on his copybook, unlike some of the other ne’er-do-wells I crossed off the list. Simply needs to marry well since his sire died. His father mortgaged the family estates to the hilt, and at the same time, ran the estate itself down to a nub. Several years of excellent management should bring the estate, Honor’s Point, back into good heart. Lord Winstead appears, to all accounts, to be upstanding enough, besides residing in dun territory.”
“What about age, Papa? Also, ‘upstanding enough’ does not reassure me. You do recall my hope is to marry a man of faith, which I don’t consider too much to ask.”
“By upstanding, I mean all evidence shows him to be moral and upright. He attends worship services on occasion, doesn’t drink, gamble, or dally with the demi-monde. And he’s in his late twenties.
“Well, I am grateful you found someone who seems to be a possibility. For now, I shall retire to my rooms.” Melissa’s stood. She had no peace about this, and wouldn’t until she met for herself the kind of man her father put forward.
Before she turned to leave, she indicated her cooperation. “Later this afternoon, I’ll appear at the proper time and place, as you deemed, and await you and Lord Peter Winstead.” Courage infused her now, but would her spirit be sustained?
At ten minutes to four, she sat in the drawing room with Miss Dean, waiting for the momentous introduction. Pluck and nerve were in short supply, but her training stood her in good stead. No one should have to go through this.
Miss Dean’s pleasant face wore an expression of both sympathy and encouragement. The companion reached across and patted Melissa’s hand. “My, your hands are cold. Shall I fetch your gloves?”
Before she could respond, the butler opened the door and admitted Melissa’s father. He swept into the room, waved his arm in a grand and cheery gesture which indicated his guest should now enter. “M’dear, this is Lord Peter Winstead, come to meet you.”
A pair of sparkly blue eyes found Melissa’s before the gentleman moved forward to take her hand. He bowed over it and lifted it, placing upon it the lightest of air kisses.
Melissa snatched her hand away but recovered her composure and smiled up through her lashes. She took in as much of his debonair appearance as possible while avoiding outright staring at his attractive, masculine face and form.
Tall, with curly black hair cut in the latest windswept style and dark blue eyes, he was a sight to enjoy.
“How do you do, Miss Southwood?”
“Fine, sir,” she answered as heat suffused her cheeks. I must look like a radish.
“Now you young folks become acquainted. I’ll be back in twenty minutes to see you out, Lord Winstead.”
The twenty-minute limit showed Papa still intended to be her protector. He would not allow improper access to his daughter even for a titled suitor. Her father left the room, humming.
Miss Dean scampered over to a seat in a corner on the far side of the room and raised her knitting from her lap. Her eyes on her work, the needles soon clacked.
“This is dashed awkward, Miss Southwood,” he began, in a soft voice. “I hope you aren’t completely averse to my suit? For I am not here on a whim.”
“Do sit down.” She indicated a nearby chair, suddenly nervous. “Not on a whim, you say?” The babbling seemed to have no effect on him.
“Not a whim at all. I’d like to court you with hopes of matrimonial alliance.”
My heart is fluttering. Not a bad sensation. This was a challenge. Was it possible to retain her serenity and peace while being courted by this attractive suitor?
~*~
Relief coursed through Lord Peter Winstead’s body when he first spied Miss Southwood as he entered the room. Any qualms were put to rest after a sight of her. It will be a pleasure courting this dazzler. It could have been much worse.
Winstead, pressured since he hadn’t much time, reminded himself that faint heart wouldn’t capture a fair lady. To meet his deadlines, the courtship must begin immediately. No mistakes. Please, let her like me. He hoped there was someone up there listening, but he wasn’t so sure.
Mr. Southwood explained to him in their meeting that his daughter had some say in the choice of husband. After a two-month courtship elapsed, if she didn’t find Winstead acceptable and had a good reason for a rejection, Mr. Southwood would move on to other candidates.
It was up to Peter. I have to win her. If she takes me, I promise to treat her well. Again, he hoped someone heard his pleas for help.
She wore a frothy white day dress, with a pink sash and pink silk shawl, which set off her creamy, porcelain complexion. As for her hair, the glistening golden mass lay restrained at the back of her neck in a sleek chignon, but wavy strands framed her classically pretty face. A refreshing trace of minty fragrance wafted from her direction. She’s lovely.
“Would you honor me by taking a drive with me tomorrow? Is half past three acceptable?” He angled himself toward her and leaned forward, full of smiling entreaty. She’d probably like him to be humble.
His good fortune swept
over him and landed in his throat as a lump. A beauty with a healthy settlement—large enough to bail him out of all his financial woes and save Honor’s Point—the place he loved more than anything in the world.
She twisted a fan between her fingers. “Indeed, sir, a drive sounds delightful. Yes, I shall like above all things to go on a carriage ride tomorrow.”
She exhaled as if she’d been holding her breath. The line on her forehead dissolved and her shoulders relaxed. She must be relieved as well. As well she ought. She should be happy with the attractive picture he presented. He had no doubt about his appeal to females. Several aristocratic heiresses dropped their handkerchiefs for him, but their fathers proved disagreeable.
Inconsequential chatter ensued. When Mr. Southwood returned, he gave permission for the drive and Lord Winstead bowed over his intended’s hand, deposited another airy kiss, and departed.
He strolled away, a spring in his steps. Her fair face and form were a bonus not to be dismissed lightly. Her money would scatter the duns and save his beloved estate. Freedom from want was near.
13
The next day’s drive through Hyde Park at the fashionable hour went off without a hitch. The open carriage did not require Melissa to be chaperoned, which allowed the courting couple to ride alone. Winstead enjoyed Melissa’s company, and the eyes of the ton were upon them. He’d been snubbed here and there over the years he’d been on the town, when young ladies and their parents learned of his financial predicament. Now society’s tabbies ogled him in the park with a beauty at his side, and until they discovered her identity, speculation would flow.
They wouldn’t miss the fact that he drove out with a young lady for the first time since the possible loss of his estate somehow became the subject of public gossip. Rumors would soon mount up like a pile of trash. He’d keep her away from them, so they couldn’t spoil his chances with their vitriol.
Later, at the club, he was confronted by two acquaintances.
The first one, a homely dandy in high collars and a mustard-colored vest, chortled a request. “Winstead, give me the straight story. I want to place a bet.”
A Match for Melissa Page 7