“No, no, dear. The invitation. You’ve no idea how coveted Mrs. Banting’s invitations are. It’s said she hasn’t given a ball for years, but the last one is still referred to as the ball of its decade.”
“Are you certain? You wouldn’t want to accept just any ton invitation, would you?” Melissa couldn’t resist bamming her father over this.
But he ignored her teasing with a wave of the hand. “We shall accept, of course. Now, Melissa, it would be most delightful for you to have a young, handsome escort. I will send a message off to Lord Winstead indicating he is to join our party.”
“Is that how it’s done? Not too forward, is it?” Deep down, she preferred to experience a ball on her own, unfettered by a suitor on a string.
“Darling daughter, put your fears to rest. I do know how to go about. I’ve made a study of such things for years. For me to include in our party an escort for you won’t cause an eye to blink.”
“As you say, Papa. What about you? Since I’ll be escorted, will you forgo this chance to mingle with the upper crust?” Eyes averted to hide their amused gleam, she drank some more tea.
“Heavens, no. Decidedly not. Winstead shall act as your escort, but I will be in attendance and in the carriage on the way to and fro. One benefit of his presence is your assurance of at least one dance partner of your own vintage.”
“Fine. You’ll inform him he is to escort me? He’s to call on me tomorrow morning, and you can get word to him at that time.”
The tea time spent discussing the ball provided both father and daughter a diversion.
“You’ll see, Missy, the ball will be the highlight of your life.” Mr. Southwood rose to go.
“We shall see, indeed. I’m glad you are happy. I do love to dance.” She threw him a bone, not really wanting to spoil his fun.
Melissa breathed a sigh of relief since the invitation distracted him from the big question of whether or not Melissa would accept Lord Winstead.
19
Peter accepted the proffered invitation to accompany the Southwoods to the Banting ball. He continued courting Melissa, limited now to thrice-weekly morning calls. Peter’s pockets were to let, and what little funds remained must keep body and soul together. Excess existed neither to provide more ices at Gunter’s, nor purchase tickets to amusements, nor to hire carriages of any type.
The extra month of courtship Miss Southwood requested in which to decide did not favor his pockets. His anxiety grew, and he counted the days until Mr. Southwood would demand an answer from his daughter. Peter still enjoyed exclusive permission to court her, and if his suit succeeded, all money worries would be put to rights.
He didn’t even accept many of the invitations to balls and banquets his title brought. He couldn’t afford a new set of evening wear or to have his cleaned. Low finances brought the dismissal of his valet, making Winstead aware of the effort and expense it took to keep up a gentleman’s wardrobe.
Considering all the care taken with his clothes, he briefly thought to beseech God about his future. He thought back to all the religious training he’d been given growing up but pushed such thoughts aside. Those beliefs wouldn’t help him now, and he had no right to ask. Pride and a hard heart prevented him casting his cares upon the Lord.
Miss Southwood probed the matter of his spiritual condition—not something he’d outright lie about. She could only probe so far, however, and he’d deflected any pointed questions she’d posed. Her personality was not forceful and outspoken, and she didn’t persist after he dodged her inquiries. He trusted her innate kindness, and she never pressed him too hard. If his suit came to naught, however, he’d be sunk.
~*~
Lucy Banting was ready for Madame Olivier’s arrival on Monday morning to take measurements, select a style, and choose fabric for a ball gown. She was a longstanding patron of the popular modiste and sure of receiving the best service. Some other ladies of the ton rejected Madame Olivier services, saying she wasn’t original enough for them. She suited Lucy well, however, because she herself abounded with originality to bring to the design process.
“My gown needs to be up-to-the-minute in style, Madame Olivier, but also unique enough to please my taste.” Lucy loved attention-getting apparel. “The ball is two weeks away. It has to be completed promptly.”
Madame Olivier unfurled one of her best French phrases. “Que voulez-vous que je fasse?”
Lucy’s mastery of French allowed her to be patient with Madame Olivier’s efforts. In fact, she’d used the gifted seamstress’s services long enough Lucy believed she’d heard all of the woman’s limited French expressions. “What should you do, Madame Olivier? I believe I’d like a new design. Yes, a gown with embroidery and pearls.” She enjoyed selecting the design and what details to include.
Madame’s head was down as she rummaged in her sewing box, and her voice was muffled. “Zat eez appropriate.”
Surprised the modiste had lapsed into English so early in the appointment, Mrs. Banting smiled to herself, hoping the contrived French would now cease. She moved things along by verbalizing a decisive plan. “Fine. Let us proceed to the measuring, followed by drawing out my ideas. We’ll select fabric and trim and have a ball gown planned by lunchtime.”
“Vous se lever, Mrs. Banting.”
Lucy did the seamstress’s bidding and stood up. She sighed, renewing her patience with Madame’s semi-mangled French, and shed the robe she wore. Now clad only in a thin chemise, Lucy turned this way and that while Madame Olivier recorded the pertinent measurements.
The seamstress’s mouthful of pins didn’t stop her stream of questionable French phrases. “Beaute de forme!”
“Enough nonsense, now. My form is adequate for someone of my age, nothing more. Please hurry so I can get into something warmer.”
Measuring complete, Lucy donned her wrapper and sank down on a chaise to rest her feet. After much discussion and selecting, Lucy was satisfied, and Madame Olivier had put in writing their final decisions.
“Don’t you agree the plum satin with the black spider gauze over-dress will be all the crack? So glad we chose a single scalloped-flounced hem. With black lace peeping out where the scallops rise, additional flounces would be too much.”
“Oui, and the plum-colored embroidery of laurel-leaves will be tres charmant, as will the black bead fringe to adorn the dainty puffed sleeves.” Madame chattered on.
Lucy let her mind wander while only half-listening to the seamstress’s prattle. Lucy had been meditating on the proverb, ‘She stretches out her hand to the poor, she reaches out her hands to the needy.’ And that inspired her to prepare a surprise for Madame Olivier and the seamstresses at her workroom. “On your way out, make sure to take what my butler gives you. It’s a sack of foodstuffs for you to distribute among your workers. I must rest now. Farewell to you, Madame. Please complete the dress in two weeks as promised.”
“Bonjour, and merci, Madame Banting.”
Lying back on the chaise with her eyes closed, Lucy planned a shopping trip to acquire a fillet of black jet for her hair. Slippers, gloves, and a fan would be a pleasure to shop for now that she’d completed the work of finalizing all the aspects of her gown. And no need for a new matching wrap or pelisse, because as the hostess of the ball, she would not leave her own doors. A little nap was now in order.
~*~
The responses to Lucy’s invitations piled up on the mail table with every post. Almost all of the two hundred invitations sent out were accepted. Several distant relatives would be attending since Lucy had taken the step of reaching out to them. They would appreciate a chance to socialize, and perhaps she could renew and strengthen those family ties. Now that she spent time with Mark so often, she had a new interest in spending time with other members of her extended family.
The few invitees who sent regrets were either ailing or out of town. She took the swell of response as proof her invitations were still coveted after all these years. Though her townhouse did hav
e a ballroom, the numbers would make it too small for true comfort. The fashion called for crowding guests in, and for one’s ball to be called a “sad crush” was considered a compliment.
Her last ball was held eight years ago, and her husband passed away two years later. She hadn’t the heart to host another until now. It had been a long while since she had the vigor necessary to do more entertaining than the occasional afternoon tea party for her lady friends. Lucy attributed her renewed zest for life to her nephew Mark turning up on her doorstep and accompanying her to church.
She mustn’t forget the reason for this ball was to help Mark. The plans appeared to be progressing as the Southwoods accepted the invitation. Lord Winstead’s name had been mentioned in the Southwood’s acceptance note. That didn’t offend propriety, and it suited her since it would allow her to get a good look at her nephew’s competition.
Too bad Mark couldn’t be even considered in the running by Mr. Southwood. Lucy enjoyed an excuse to have a ball, but she wasn’t too optimistic about Mark’s chances with Melissa Southwood. Her lack of optimism didn’t take away from the excitement of playing a part in her nephew’s pursuit of a match. Being his confidante added some much-needed spice to her quiet life.
She turned to her planning notebook, crossed out order gown, and perused the rest of her to-do lists, deciding whether she could do any more tasks related to the ball before she headed out to the shops.
Lucy’s heart swelled with gratitude for the way her life had become richer since her nephew returned. She sought God’s wisdom upon her efforts to make Mark’s dreams come true. He needed all the prayers he could get.
20
Mark occupied himself meeting with the solicitors for the estate, visiting agricultural experts, and purchasing innovative implements for the home farms. Sporadic visits to various social events didn’t relieve the tedium as he waited for the day of the ball to arrive. Aunt Lucy’s ball would be his next chance to dance attendance upon the exquisite Miss Southwood. He held onto a faint thread of hope he’d somehow woo and win her away from Winstead.
The situation left him with a sensation almost as if he’d been punched in the stomach by an unscrupulous enemy. His mind stayed centered upon a young lady all but affianced to another. His heart gave a thump every time he recalled the encounter with Melissa at her home, and those few delightful minutes spent with her. To comfort himself in his desperation, he allowed his mind to replay their conversation and muse upon the beauty of her face.
Penning a letter to the Cleavers, Miss Cleaver and Jeremiah, he caught them up on events since he arrived in London:
... and I learned that the young lady who found me in the ditch and helped nurse me back to health, is a well-known subject of haute ton gossip as the one being courted by the impecunious Lord Peter Winstead. The news surprised me and seemed fortuitous, since I went to London for the very purpose of wife-hunting. I took myself off to the Southwood mansion to meet with Mr. Southwood, the father of your lovely former charge.
This may sound bold to you, but it made sense to me that to pass over a young lady already known by me would be folly. Who’s to say she wouldn’t be the one the Lord has planned for me?
Having met Miss Southwood, my foreknowledge put me more at ease when appearing in front of the man, asking for his most prized possession.
Imagine my chagrin upon discovering myself to be too late. Winstead is the only sanctioned suitor, and my chances are dim. I will soon be seeing her socially, however, at a ball to which the Southwoods are invited. At least there, I will have access to Miss Southwood for a dance or maybe two.
Since I believe the Lord led me to meet her, I still hope her father may admit me into the running. With his desire to enter the ton, perhaps this ball will somehow whet his interest in allowing me a chance.
Sincerely in need of your prayers, Mark…
He signed with a flourish and leaned back in his chair to go over the possibilities. Beginning with the sublime, he wove a roseate dream of himself and Miss Southwood pledging their troth with rays of light creating a holy aura around their heads. His fingers found the edge of his cravat and pleated it.
Ridiculous, fanciful scenarios filled his head when he thought of the ball. Perchance Mark would sweep her off her feet, and they would float across the dance floor in music-induced bliss. Or perhaps Winstead was a terrible dancer, and she would take him in disgust.
Additional, more prosaic concerns rushed in soon enough. Suppose all did go well as possible? Would Southwood give him a chance? Would the ball be a sufficient wedge, opening the door to courting her with her father’s approval? How would his hopes be realized?
His worries gave Mark an urgent desire to rise up and do something—anything. He rang for his valet, and upon the valet’s breathless arrival in the room, delivered instructions.
“Thomas, get out my evening clothes. Inspect them with as careful an eye as ever you have. Anything with the tiniest flaw must be replaced. And make sure they are of the first stare of fashion. We ought to present our best front, or foot, or face, or whatever is the latest term. The get-up should all be right and tight by the Banting ball.”
“Sir, the cravat you are wearing is, ah, damaged.” The valet winced, disgust plain on his face.
“Fine. Bring another.” Mark stared out the window where a flowerbed caught his attention. He turned back toward the servant. “Carry out an order of flowers. For Miss Southwood of Park Lane, a nosegay of the finest pale pink roses. For my aunt, Mrs. Banting, make it a large spray of camellias, and if those aren’t in season, orchids will do.”
Suffering the servant’s ministrations, he called a halt as soon as the fresh cravat was tied. “There. I’m well satisfied. I’ll pen a note to go with Miss Southwood’s bouquet.”
He sealed the missive, handed it to Thomas, and issued a final instruction on his way out the door. “Order my carriage. I am riding out this hour on business. That will be all, Thomas.”
He descended to the main floor of the house, and as soon as his carriage arrived at the front door, Mark emerged and gave instructions to the coachman. He settled in the front-facing seat, thinking over the events of the day. The valet would ensure his evening clothes were of the first stare. With the flowers ordered, his mind turned to his other plans.
Since his conversion to Christ, he shouldered a new burden for those less fortunate. Today, a visit to a charity soup kitchen allowed confirmation as to whether his resources were put to good use in the Lord’s name there.
He believed, as an agricultural landowner, it fitting to focus his charitable benevolence around feeding the hungry. For now, he provided funds. Later, he hoped to designate a portion of his annual yield to this work. Giving from his harvest would add extra savor and zest to the year-in, year-out pattern of planting, tending, and harvesting.
He planned to inspect the feeding program his London minister told him about before continuing his anonymous donations. He experienced a gladness and purpose missing in his pre-conversion days. It must be joy, he mused.
Nearing his destination, he banged with his walking stick the pre-arranged signal on the ceiling of the coach. As the coach pulled to the side of the heavily-traveled street, the sound of wood cracking preceded a shocking tilt of the coach. The vehicle slammed into the pavement, jolting Mark from his seat onto the floor. He landed well and lurched to his feet. Praise God he’d nothing but a few bruises as a result.
He pushed open the door, now above him, hoisted himself out, and then vaulted over onto the sidewalk. The coachman was unharmed but had his hands full calming the horses. Mark went forward to assist in loosening the traces. When they had the horses untangled, calm, and held by their bridles, Mark’s mind flew to the oddness of the mishap.
“What caused the carriage to tip? I heard a crack.” Mark used his free hand to pat the coachman on the shoulder, giving reassurance no blame was cast.
“Yon axle’s clear broken, sir. ’Spect that’s the cause.”<
br />
Mark instructed the man to take the horses to the stable in the mews behind the club. The axle looked quite suspicious. He hired a group of urchins to move the damaged vehicle to the curbside and one to guard it until he made arrangements to remove it. Coins were handed out with liberality, and when he was assured all was taken care of for the time being, he calmly went on with what he came for.
The charity kitchen’s dining room, though dimly lit, appeared to be efficient, neat, and well-attended by lines of scrawny men, women, and children. It gladdened him that he had not stinted with the amount he brought with him in the small, but heavy leather purse in his coat pocket.
The smells of stew and fresh bread were appetizing. He wanted good food to be given to the poor, not mere scraps.
As he looked around for the director of the feeding mission, he spied a youngish woman stationed behind the largest pot. Wrapped in a large apron, swathed in a kerchief, she was busy with her ladle. Nevertheless, something familiar in her demeanor caused him to move closer to investigate.
It couldn’t be! Miss Southwood, here? Mark stood rooted to the spot, taking in the scene and immediately evaluating her safety. He spotted a brawny manservant in the Southwood livery in attendance. The man seemed alert, leaning against the wall about ten feet away from Melissa, acting as a bodyguard. The venue appeared orderly and safe, but Mark was relieved she had protection. There sat Miss Dean on a chair nearby, too. The faded older woman blended into her corner, but the motion of her knitting needles flashed in the dimness.
Mark stepped around the end of the serving table and began to pass bowls one at a time to Miss Southwood. She filled each bowl before handing it to the next in line. He chanced a peek at her and observed a flush to her cheeks missing earlier. So, perhaps she wasn’t indifferent to him.
~*~
Melissa’s face grew warm. A tremor of excitement sizzled within her, and her heart gave a leap upon sighting Lord Russell. The simple pleasure of seeing a friend brought joy, for she had few. But it was more than that, she’d admit, if only to herself.
A Match for Melissa Page 11