“I’ve been telling my aunt about your charming gardens. Before we depart, may we all take a turn in the vicarage garden?” Mark caught Miss Southwood’s gaze at last and received a tentative, yet sweet smile.
“Excellent. Just the thing.” Miss Cleaver beamed, and the men rose first.
Mr. Cleaver held out his arm. Aunt Lucy laid her hand on it, and they led the way out. Mark bent both arms and escorted Miss Southwood and Miss Cleaver.
Once out in the garden and on the smooth looping paths, Miss Southwood let go of his arm and moved off a ways. Bereft, he comforted himself that at least she was near. The gardens lay arranged around a fountain and bordered by boxwood hedges. Even though he wanted to, Mark didn’t make his attentions too pressing. Without permission to court her, he must avoid any efforts to attach her affections. This limit became a battleground because every bit of him wanted nothing more than to pursue her. He even went so far as to discuss various flora with Miss Cleaver while he forced down the desire to get close to Miss Southwood.
The garden was small, however, and thus he, independently deciding to peruse a sumptuous rose bush laden with pale pink blooms, soon found himself in proximity to the object of his affections.
Miss Cleaver turned away with no little alacrity and took Aunt Lucy by the arm, steering her to the opposite side of the garden. “I want to show you my favorite arbor.”
Miss Southwood smiled up at him from under her lashes, and a connection simmered like an invisible thread. Mark reached out and touched a rose, stroking its velvety petals. “This rose is beautiful. God provides such splendor in nature.”
“Yes, He is a loving, creative God.” Her pensive tone touched his heart.
“The way He has ordered creation is a marvel too vast to comprehend, but we can observe His glory everywhere.” Mark arced his arm in an encompassing gesture, but his words held a double meaning as he drank in the sight of her feminine beauty.
She gazed right at him. “These flowers remind me of the bouquet of lilies you sent in London. It was very pretty. I never thanked you.”
Thrilled that she was giving him eye contact, he almost forgot to respond. “You are welcome. I am delighted you’ll be over for dinner tomorrow evening. I look forward to it.”
She agreed. “I expect it will be a night to remember.”
Memorable because she’d be with him, he hoped. The two ambled on through the small garden in plain sight of the others on the circular paths.
~*~
Concentrating on writing a sermon didn’t come easy after the distraction of a visit by an exceedingly pleasant set of guests—Lord Russell and his aunt. Who knew Lord Russell had such an attractive aunt? Quite interesting, too—so lighthearted and amusing, in a modest way. Jeremiah stared off into the far corner of the room, not seeing. Was this love coming to him late in life? He exhaled a breath he didn’t realize he held and it came out a sigh.
“Sir? May I pick up the tea tray, now?”
“Oh, Cassandra. Certainly. I was gathering my thoughts for Sunday’s sermon.”
“So impressive, the way preachers can illuminate the Bible for those in the pews. Father used to practice his sermons and often I acted as a trial congregation, giving him my reaction.”
“Now that would be helpful. He must have appreciated you. I remember him as a very godly man. You surely miss him very much.”
“Yes, sir. He and I were close. He was my tutor and shared with me as much knowledge as I could absorb. I do miss him.”
“Mr. Chesney possessed a fine education. I recall him having a fondness for languages—Greek, Latin, and Hebrew. Is that correct?”
“Oh, yes. Father was a scholar.” Her hand shot up to cover her mouth, and she dropped her head, scooped the tea tray, and scurried toward the door. “I must go now.”
“Perhaps you’ll be able to help me with a tricky translation some other day.” He stopped speaking since she slipped through the door and was gone. Thoughtful, he dipped his pen in ink and began again to concentrate on the sermon—but distracted by thoughts of a little blue-eyed orphaned maid.
34
At Russell Manor later that afternoon, Aunt Lucy planned the menu, closeted with Mrs. Good. With attention to detail, Aunt Lucy would be working off a list, choosing flowers, china, and plate. The dinner party would keep her busy. Confident in his aunt’s hostess abilities, Mark put his mind to other matters. Determined to hold his own as master of the estate, he met with the local magistrate, Mr. Billington.
“I’ve taken out a search party weekly. I personally searched the neighborhood several times—every free hour, Lord Russell. Can’t find a shred of evidence pointing to the presence of any outsiders. We being located remote-like, most criminals would have to wait around a while for a coach or traveler to rob.” He clutched his hat in this hand, rolling the brim.
“You’ve checked for gypsies or for reports of highwaymen in surrounding counties? It should be easy for the folks hereabouts to spot interlopers slipping across county lines.” Mark tapped his fingertips on the desktop.
Billington’s face fell into creases. “I’ve inquired of my colleagues. No rash of highway robbery, no gypsy encampments—nothing. Not a clue’s shown up as yet. I will remind the locals to be alert. The roads have to be kept safe. It is such a shame and a scandal for the new lord of the manor to be struck down in broad daylight—”
“Enough.” Mark held up his hand to halt the flow of regrets. He didn’t care for how his attack was made out to be more important because of his status. Anyone left for dead should get the same level of concern.
“Yes, sir, of course. I just meant—”
Mark cut off the man’s words again. “I came out of it fine. But, of course, I don’t want anyone else to suffer a similar or worse fate. I’ll be patrolling the boundaries of my lands several times a week. Perhaps I’ll spot someone or something out of place.” The lack of criminal activities or clues made him wonder if the attack targeted him specifically. An agent of doom, lying in wait for him alone. But why? He was aware of no enemies.
After dismissing Billington, Mark went out to walk off his frustration. He stalked along the paths, eyes staring straight ahead, hands clasped behind his back. The mantle of victimhood did not sit well with him. Various plans and schemes to capture an amorphous enemy traipsed through his mind, never amounting to a workable plan.
Thoughts of Miss Southwood soon overtook sordid thoughts of crime. He’d much rather think of her than of footpads knocking him over the head. Conjuring her in his mind’s eye brought a smile to his heart.
When the path took him by the edge of a cool, deep pond, he scooped water up and splashed his face. This cleared his head further and reminded him of the portion of Scripture he read that morning. Thou wilt keep him in perfect peace, whose mind is stayed on thee: because he trusteth in thee.
Without intending it, he walked on, arriving at a stile marking a shortcut to the vicarage. Up and over, down the path. His legs had a mind of their own. He soon knocked at the vicarage door.
The new maid answered the door. “Good morning, sir.”
Her well-modulated voice surprised him. Perhaps she was a penniless gentlewoman fallen on hard times. The Cleavers were so kind, they probably couldn’t turn anyone away. “Good morning. You’re new here, aren’t you?”
She bobbed a curtsey. “I’m Cassandra.” Composed, the small woman stood her ground.
He realized she was waiting for him to say what he wanted. “Lord Russell, here to visit the minister.”
“I’ll see if he’s receiving.” She turned away, swift to do her job.
Mark busied himself with shedding his hat and gloves but wasn’t left to wait long.
“Follow me, sir.” Spine straight, Cassandra led him to the correct door. “He’s in here.”
“Hello. Come right in,” Mr. Cleaver’s loud voice boomed, and he waved Mark into his cramped study. “Pleased to see you again so soon. This will give us a chance to talk wi
thout the ladies.” He gestured, indicating two matching armchairs in front of the desk.
Mark settled into a chair, and Mr. Cleaver came around the desk to sit in the other. He crossed his legs and angled toward Mark. “Is Mrs. Banting enjoying her visit?”
“Aunt Lucy is happy here. She’ll soon be occupied teaching our serving girls to knit. Being of service to others is a new focus of hers. You see, in London, after she learned of my conversion, she had a renewal of her own faith. We began observing the Sabbath together.” Mark tented his fingers under his chin.
Mr. Cleaver’s face lit up at this news. “She’s a fine lady. And what of you, Mark? Tell me why you’re back in Russelton this time?”
A tap sounded on the door.
“I’ll answer that question in a moment.”
Cassandra entered, balancing a heavy tray. After taking special care of Mr. Cleaver’s plate, napkin, cup, and milk, she curtsied her way out, and the men helped themselves to biscuits.
“That reminds me. Your new maid seems quite refined for a simple housemaid. And that name, Cassandra. So fancy? How old is she?” Mark picked up his cup.
“Poor thing. Looks about thirty. She appeared at the back door on her last legs. My sister and I determined we needed more help, and there you have it. She also considers the young woman to be a companion for herself. Priscilla deserves some company instead of being alone with just me all the time. I’m happy she likes the maid that well. A mystery exists about how Cassandra, a minister’s daughter, came to be cast out on the world. My sister has the details, but she didn’t repeat them. Whatever the troubles, honest work is hard to find—certainly for a young woman with no relatives nor any place to go. That much I can surmise.”
From a distant room, came the sound of a piano. A talented pianist was playing an arrangement of a hymn. “Who’s the pianist?”
“Not my sister. She’s never gotten this advanced. It’s the maid, Cassandra. She’s very accomplished in her education, being a minister’s daughter and only child. She asked to use the piano, but I had no idea she could play this well.”
“She’s quite a musician.” Mark leaned back and enjoyed the distant melody.
“Indeed, she is. So, you’ve returned to the country after your time in London. Your note said you were going there for personal business. Did that go well?”
“Yes and no. Since I trust you not to gossip, I’ll explain all.”
“Strict confidentiality, my boy.”
“I decided to dip my toe into the marriage mart in search of a helpmeet. A wife is a good thing, the Bible says.”
“But it didn’t go as planned? I’ve certainly heard nothing of a betrothal, nor have I seen an engagement announcement in the Times. And you indicated in your letter that your eye had been taken by a certain young lady.” Cleaver waggled his brows.
“My initial plans failed, but I haven’t given up. You asked me what brought me back to Russelton? That’s an easy one. Miss Southwood. I don’t need a reason other than I consider this to be my home, and I find it pleasant. I only left for London when I did to perhaps secure a suitable wife on the marriage market. If it hadn’t been for that motive, I’d have burrowed myself away at Russell Manor for the rest of my days. You read my letter? Yes, well, I seem to be in a bit of a hard spot.”
“Your letter. Quite a dilemma you placed before me. How goes it?” Cleaver uncrossed his legs and leaned forward, one elbow on the arm of the chair.
“My dilemma is one of honor opposed to desire. I purposely ‘followed’ Miss Southwood back to this neighborhood. I believe it is acceptable for us to be in the same vicinity, yet I don’t believe it would be honorable for me to openly court her without her father’s permission.”
I won’t let her go—nor let her slip through my fingers again. If I don’t win her, it won’t be because of a missed opportunity.
“So you are planning to further your acquaintance via proximity, but not outright pursuit?”
“You’ve stated exactly what I’m thinking. That is my hope. Do I at least have your approval to some degree?”
“I can’t say I’m knowledgeable about winning a young lady’s heart, but if you are able to spend time furthering the acquaintance while in company, I don’t see harm.” He stroked his upper lip with the side of his forefinger.
“Your good opinion means a lot to me. And since I value and respect your opinion, Mr. Cleaver, I promise to keep you apprised. Thank you for the tea and the visit. I’ll let myself out now.”
After a handshake, Mark moved out into the hall. The maid, Cassandra, handed him his hat and cane somewhat hurriedly. Then she turned and slipped into the study.
Mark reached for the handle of the front door. It opened, and Miss Southwood moved through the door, bent over, fussing with the hem of her dress, caught on a rough spot on the doorframe. She looked up after getting it loose. “Oh my!” Her hand flew to her throat.
They smiled at each other. Mark stepped to one side, only to find she’d moved in the same direction. A blush touched her cheeks, and he chuckled.
After three attempts, Mark swept his arm out to the side, bowed, and then backed up to the wall. “Allow me to step aside.”
“Thank you, sir.” A smile added to Melissa’s lighthearted tone.
“Quite welcome, Miss Southwood. It’s wonderful to see you, but alas, I must go. Farewell until the dinner party tomorrow.”
He caught a flash of disappointment in her eyes before she lowered her gaze. His pulse leaped.
She gave a muted “Farewell” in response. He went out the door and closed it behind him. It took all he had not to skip down the path on his way home.
35
He left in such a hurry. She thought he would try to further the relationship now. After all, he wanted to court her in London.
Since they were both in the same neighborhood, with Winstead out of the picture, Melissa expected an active pursuit by Lord Russell. He acted so warm and friendly in the vicarage garden this very morning. But now, he left when he might have lingered in the hall with her. She didn’t understand.
She hastened up the stairs and entered her pleasant guest bedroom, light and airy on fair days, cozy and warm on the gloomy ones. Miss Cleaver selected modest new furniture and décor when she took over the vicarage housekeeping. Her tasteful choices lent to the charming comfort of the armchair, bed, and padded window seat.
Wrenching off her shawl and bonnet, Melissa dropped them on a chest at the foot of the bed and dashed to the window seat. She sat and swung her legs up, and then wrapped both arms around her knees, eyes following Lord Russell’s retreating form until he disappeared from view. Resting her cheek on her knees, she noticed her heart throbbing but attributed it to climbing the stairs, not to seeing Lord Russell.
She rose from the window seat and walked over to the open wardrobe. Hanging there were at least a dozen dresses. She scanned them, moving from right to left. Deciding what to wear to the dinner party at Russell Manor tomorrow night distracted her from wondering why he hadn’t stayed on in the hall for even a brief conversation.
Blue. Men liked blue, didn’t they? She held the cornflower silk gown with a white lace overskirt and intricate stitching across the bodice in front of herself and looked in the mirror. A possibility, but perhaps too fancy for a country dinner party?
She turned back to the wardrobe. Fashion was a hobby to her. She’d spent hours on it for lack of anything else to keep occupied. Lonely, and not allowed much freedom, she took pleasure in the colors, fabrics, and sketching styles. It was all vanity—she understood that. Other people painted, collected books, or wrote poetry that never saw the light of day. Melissa liked clothes. That didn’t make her a bad person, but rather a well-dressed one.
White was the mode for people her age. Setting the blue dress aside, she pulled out a white satin gown figured all over with pink embroidered flowers. She loved the femininity of embroidery, but when held up to the mirror, it washed out her complexion
. No, definitely not the white gown with pink embroidery. Perhaps another time. Maybe the blue, after all.
Melissa admitted to wanting Lord Russell’s attention. She’d always been quite unself-conscious, but now his potential reaction informed her selection.
She chose the blue. Even touching the luscious fabric gave her delight. The soft silk sent her into a reverie of imagining the gleam in his eyes when she walked in. Her breathing became a bit faster. Waiting until tomorrow night to see him would be painful—strong yearning for his presence swept over her.
Shaking her head to banish the unwelcome sensation, she glanced again at the other dresses. They also were beautiful, but the blue gown best complemented her coloring. She liked the high-waisted dress’s fit and its understated lace overskirt. The bodice’s filmy silk fichu filled in the neckline, bringing it up to a modest position.
Tomorrow’s dinner gown decided upon, Melissa picked up her Bible from the armchair, intending to have a quiet moment with God. She read for a time, and then took her cares to the Lord.
…and forgive me for wanting to run ahead of Your plan for me. Please help me to be patient about finding a husband who shares my faith in You. I put it all in Your hands, Lord Jesus, Amen.
~*~
Mr. Cleaver stuck his head in the door of the small music room. He cleared his throat to alert Cassandra to his presence. “Seems you have quite the touch with that hymn. What one was that?” He stepped into the room.
“I hope it didn’t disturb you. Miss Cleaver said I could play when my morning tasks were done.” She raised her brows, beseeching.
Her frightened, questioning eyes smote Mr. Cleaver’s heart. Why, the little thing was afraid. “Cassandra, by all means, use the piano. I trust Miss Cleaver’s judgment, and I certainly liked what I heard. What was that again? I recognize it, but can’t put my finger on the words.”
“It’s an English melody for Psalm 64. A Little That the Righteous Hold.”
A Match for Melissa Page 18