“Of course…‘better than the wealth untold of many wicked men.’”
Cassandra completed the verse. “‘Destroyed shall be their arm of pride, but they who in the Lord confide shall be upholden then.’”
She looked embarrassed. He wondered why. Nothing like a good Psalm to straighten out one’s heart.
“It appears that my colleague, your father, provided you with musical training. Many would give their eyeteeth to play so well.”
“Thank you, Mr. Cleaver. If only he’d provided me with a portion…and a home.”
“You had no dowry? No home?”
“He consistently gave his money to the poor. I don’t begrudge them a farthing, but he inadvertently left me poor. At least if I’d married, I’d have a home to call my own.” With a rueful face and an impatient motion, she shoved her hair behind her ears.
“I shall leave you to your music. And thank you—it’s a delight to hear.” He backed out of the room and gently closed the door.
~*~
Back in London, on a typical, foggy, wet day, Mr. Southwood sat in his study and opened a letter from his daughter. He settled back into the chair behind his desk to enjoy it.
The missive read as follows:
Dear Papa,
You’ll be glad to learn we arrived safely. We are enjoying good weather and the quiet environs of the vicarage. We’re invited to a dinner party tomorrow night. The Cleavers are accepted into local society due to his position as vicar. I, too, am included in the invitation to the local manor house. Country society is perhaps more welcoming than London’s.
It has been a peaceful few days, and my wounds are beginning to heal. Some of the old contentment taken away by my shocking experience of a few weeks ago is returning, as is my normal equilibrium.
When I am ready to return to London, I shall communicate again—probably in a month or so. God be with you, Papa.
Love, Melissa
One eyebrow elevated, he slapped down the sheet of paper, grabbed up the envelope, and re-read it, paying special attention to the return address. Rising, he plucked a well-thumbed copy of Debrett’s Peerage off a bookshelf and went back to his chair. He searched Debrett’s until he reached the “R’s.” Running his thumb over each page, he sat up straight when he found the entry he sought.
Scanning the entry, he murmured “…family seat: Russell Manor, Russelton.” He cast his mind over their conversation. Melissa had told him her destination was the vicarage, but he hadn’t realized the Cleavers lived in the same town named after Lord Russell’s forebears. Anger and suspicion mounted within him. Melissa wouldn’t set a foot wrong, therefore, he turned his spite on Lord Russell. There must be a secret intent in the fact he hadn’t been told this little detail. Casting his mind back to his visit with Mrs. Banting, he couldn’t remember her mentioning the proximity of the Cleaver’s vicarage and Lord Russell’s ancestral home, either.
He labored over a message. How to hit the right chord of insouciance yet incite an informative reaction? The resulting note read,
Dear Mrs. Banting,
Thank you for the visit the other day. Any word from your nephew lately? Any repercussions from the ‘incident’? My daughter is out of town, rusticating.
Yours, Mr. Southwood
Homer sent a messenger boy over to Mrs. Banting’s townhouse with the note and instructions to ferret out information.
The boy returned and reported. “The old butler let slip about Mrs. Banting being out of town. He wouldn’t say more, but I went ‘round to the kitchen entrance and loitered a bit. Got to chattin’ with a scullery maid. She bragged at how her mistress was off in the country with Lord Russell, wot’s her nephew.”
“This report shall earn you a reward.” Mr. Southwood reached into the desk. “Hold out your hand.” He placed a few coins in the boy’s palm. “You may go.”
“Cor! Thankee.” The young servant yanked on his forelock, bowed, and backed out of the room.
Homer wanted to spit, he was so mad. Too bad there was no spittoon in this refined home. How could he have been deceived? He would need to show them he was not to be trifled with.
Mr. Southwood yanked a piece of paper out of a drawer and smacked it down on the desk. He pulled a pen and ink bottle forward. He wrote a lengthy list of instructions. He rang for the housekeeper, apprising her of his departure. His valet was commanded to pack, and the butler gave orders for a coach to be readied. To the secretary lurking in the dark corner of the study, he said, “Step up here. I need you to take the reins of the enterprise while I am in the country for a few days. Here are your instructions.”
If he left immediately, he could arrive in Russelton by afternoon the next day. He didn’t relish the danger and discomfort of traveling around the clock but didn’t want to delay arrival on the scene. If he stopped to sleep at an inn to break up the trip into two reasonable daytime stretches of travel, he would grievously suffer from the enforced inactivity of biding at an inn twiddling his thumbs.
No, the sooner he arrived at the manor, the sooner he could find out what the intentions of Lord Russell were toward his daughter. Anger fueled him, and he rehearsed stern speeches to deliver when he got there. Even though Russell held a title and the Southwoods did not, that did not give Lord Russell the right to pursue some havey-cavey romance without a father’s permission.
It took an hour to go over the list of instructions with the secretary, and by then the coach was prepared and his bags packed. Mr. Southwood’s air of restrained energy was even more intense than usual and he vaulted into the coach and shouted to the coachman, “Be off!” as soon as the door clicked shut.
36
Only two hours remained before guests would begin to arrive for the dinner party. A loud pounding arose at the front door.
Lucy Banting registered the racket but ignored it, busy upstairs in her boudoir with her lady’s maid, preparing for the evening. A tap sounded upon the bedroom door.
“Enter. Yes?” Lucy gave only half of her attention to the housemaid who entered.
“Beg your pardon, ma’am, but there’s an angry gent, Mr. Southwood, he sez, downstairs. Butler’s put him into an anteroom to cool his heels. Sez he’s got to see the master. Master’s not here right now, ma’am.” The drab little housemaid looked frightened half out of her wits.
This caught Lucy’s full attention. She glanced at the clock on her mantel before responding. “Don’t worry. His bark is worse than his bite, I’m guessing. This is quite an inopportune moment, but I shall do what I can.”
She rose from her seat at her dressing table, ready to defend and aid her nephew’s cause. As appealing as Mr. Southwood was in some ways, his insensitivity to the young people rankled. She would not let him get the upper hand by allowing him to throw his anger around. Grabbing up a rose pink watered silk dressing gown, she handed it to her lady’s maid, who held it out for Lucy to put her arms through the voluminous sleeves. While tying the sash with vigor, she marveled at the man’s temerity.
Squaring her petite shoulders, she descended the stairs with as much dignity as possible while wearing one’s dressing robe. The frightened housemaid slunk behind. Lucy held her head high while curiosity and necessity gathered within and drove her to greater speed than normal down the curved, oaken staircase. Even under the foreboding shadow of an unpleasant confrontation, she stayed calm. Whatever the meaning of this intrusion, there was no time to dilly-dally. She had a dinner party to host tonight.
They reached the hall, and Crabtree stepped forward. “Ma’am, he’s in there. He says his name’s Southwood, and he’s got to see the master. Shall I bring him to the parlor?”
“Yes. I shall see him there. Give me a moment.” She turned to her right and entered a small sitting room off the main hall.
She didn’t have long to wait. Mere seconds later, the butler ushered in Homer Southwood, whose bluster carried him into the room on a cloud of aggrieved self-importance. Chest out, hands clenched, a stern express
ion adorned the man’s flushed face. He reminded her of a bottle with a cork in it, and his demeanor revealed to her an imminent outpouring of anger.
“Why, Mr. Southwood, what an unexpected pleasure.” Lucy’s words fluted, pouring out like the sweetest honey. She batted her eyelashes and gazed up at him.
He stood stymied. Good. She widened her smile. She laughed inside as he visibly subsided. Placating an angry Mr. Southwood was surely an honorable use of her feminine wiles. She held out her hand, and he moved forward with great alacrity to bow over it and bestow a kiss upon it.
She withdrew her hand when he straightened. “You’ve arrived at such a fortuitous time!” Tilting her head flirtatiously, she took the moral high ground and pasted a good face on his untoward intrusion. “Please join us for dinner this evening, won’t you? We are having a small party.”
Strong suspicions told her his appearance at Russell Manor stemmed from an attempt to control the situation involving his daughter Melissa and her nephew Mark. It had crossed her mind to wonder how long it would take him to put two and two together about the location of Russell Manor. Now the answer stood before her. He showed all the marks of a man unused to events getting away from him.
“Yes, well, I, um…Dinner? I hoped to have speech with Lord Russell…”
She heard the stammer and seized the upper hand. “He’s out for the moment. You must stay here tonight. There won’t be time for any more serious talks this day. I shall instruct the staff to carry in your bags.” She raised her brows and coyly touched her cheek to her shoulder. “You do have bags?”
He nodded, again at a loss for words.
“I’ll order a room prepared, and your baggage taken up. You can go up and refresh yourself in no time.” Tonight’s dinner party would be even more diverting than expected. For all his bluster, he appealed to her.
~*~
Mr. Southwood followed a servant upstairs, where he was ensconced in a lavish and comfortable guest suite. He bowed to the inevitable with a grudging inward admission of satisfaction. Accepting the assistance of a temporarily-assigned valet, he rid himself of travel dirt and dressed in evening clothes.
Suddenly caught up in the bosom of the ton, he experienced less anger and a sense of well-being unequaled since before his wife’s death. His heart floated lighter than it had for many months. He wouldn’t relinquish his mission to investigate the intentions of Lord Russell. However, that didn’t mean he couldn’t relish the moment. Wasn’t this the sort of invitation he long coveted? An invitation received in an unorthodox manner, but his fondest dreams were within reach. It almost seemed as though Mrs. Banting was flirting, too. Was that even possible?
37
Mark entered the drawing room to wait for the dinner guests to gather and found his aunt already there, arrayed upon a settee near the fireplace.
After bowing over her hand, he spoke. “Aunt Lucy, you’re younger every time I see you these days.”
Mark threw back the tails of his formal dinner coat and sat down next to her. He studied her. Her flattering, cocoa-brown silk dress had coral-pink velvet ribbon accents at the high waist and on the puffy sleeves. A simple coral cameo adorned her neck, hanging from a delicate gold chain. Her paisley cashmere shawl in shades of brown and coral completed the ensemble.
On closer inspection, he noticed a worried wrinkle creasing her brow. Assuming she was anxious about the party, and setting out to reassure her, he launched into a review of the seating arrangements.
“This promises to be an agreeable dinner. The five of us, correct? You, me, the Cleavers, and Miss Southwood? Even though the numbers are uneven, Aunt,” he went on, “you’ll sit at the foot, the Cleavers to your left, Miss Southwood to your right, and me at the head. Are you satisfied?”
“That arrangement would have been fine. We received an unexpected guest. Miss Southwood’s father arrived at Russell Manor while you were out. He was in high dudgeon.”
“What? What is he doing here?” Mark’s stomach dived to his shoes and he shot to his feet.
“Calm down. I smoothed his ruffled feathers by inviting him to be our guest. Now, listen, before he gets down here. He’s asking—no, demanding—to ‘have speech’ with you.” She rested her hand on Mark’s forearm.
“This is a disturbing turn of events. I thought to have an interlude in which to spend time with Miss Southwood.” Disgruntled, and a shade disheartened, his mind went to work to predict what her father’s arrival meant to his plan and how to maneuver around this new development. “I am exceedingly thankful my heart and mind rest in Christ now, not in my earthly strategy. He will guide me through this.” Without faith, this would possibly crush his hopes or stir him to anger. But, with faith in God, this occurrence wasn’t a defeat.
“Nothing makes me happier than to hear you say that. Oh, here he is.” She clasped her hands in front of her waist.
Mark stiffened as he turned toward Mr. Southwood, who entered the room and approached. The man’s eyes held an uncertain, hunted look. He went straight to Aunt Lucy instead of to Mark. That was good—at least Mr. Southwood didn’t come and punch Mark in the jaw. He’d have no right, but enraged fathers were something of a wild card.
Mr. Southwood bowed and scraped before Aunt Lucy. “Mrs. Banting. You are ravishing.”
With surprise, Mark sensed Southwood’s distinct air of a suitor pursuing a lady. Perhaps Mark should inquire of Southwood’s intentions, not the other way around.
“Too kind, sir. Please do be seated.” Aunt Lucy indicated the place next to her on the settee by tapping it with her fan. She cocked her head, looking up at Southwood through her eyelashes, and astonished Mark with the coquettish mannerisms she produced.
With no force, her flirtatious demeanor clearly brought the interloper under her sway. Her ability to subdue such a vigorous man impressed Mark.
The doorknocker banging against the solid front door disrupted the scene.
Revealing her nervousness, Aunt Lucy fluted an obvious remark. “The other guests have arrived.” Mark intercepted a nervous glance from her before she turned a charming smile toward Southwood again.
The footman opened the drawing room door, stepped back, and the butler entered with a sweep of his hand. “The Cleavers. Miss Southwood.” Thus announced, the group entered.
Aunt Lucy approached Miss Southwood instead of waiting for her to draw nigh. Aunt Lucy clasped both of the younger lady’s hands in her own to greet her and leaned in. Mark, having joined them, heard his aunt whisper, “Your father arrived here less than two hours ago.”
Then turning to the Cleavers, Aunt Lucy and Mark gave them a gracious, warm greeting. The group moved over to the fireplace to where Mr. Southwood stood. Mark sensed indecision wafting from the man. He deserved to be ill at ease, having shown up uninvited, but Mark tried to be compassionate.
“Papa?” Melissa approached her father with a stiff, quizzical smile on her lips and reached up to place a light kiss on this cheek. “What a surprise to find you here.”
“Yes, well, Mrs. Banting invited me to be a guest at Russell Manor.”
This vague response served to change the subject from the oddness of his presence. Mark marveled at the audacity of the man.
Southwood held out his hand to the man of the cloth. “You must be Miss Cleaver’s brother?”
“Mr. Southwood, it’s my pleasure to introduce you to Mr. Cleaver,” Mark interjected. “He is the local vicar and a leading citizen of this fair community. Is it correct Miss Cleaver worked for your family for years?” The Cleavers’ presence should help smooth the path of this uncomfortable turn of events.
“Yes, yes. She, shall we say, retired less than a year ago. How does Russelton compare to London? Is it to your liking, Miss Cleaver?”
“Since leaving your esteemed employ, though I miss my young lady, I am very content living here. Many ways to serve the Lord exist right here in this little burg. How have you been?” Ever polite, Miss Cleaver did her part to smooth th
ings over.
While this exchange went on, Mr. Cleaver took Aunt Lucy’s arm and moved off to another part of the room. He was smiling, nodding, and listening intently to whatever she said. The interchange didn’t appear to regard a problem, rather a congenial meeting of the minds, thus Mark turned his attention back to Miss Southwood.
For a moment, Mark allowed himself to believe all would smooth over. Then she spied him looking at her. She first blanched with surprised shock, and now her cheeks changed to embarrassed red. The poor, sweet young lady. She was so refined, and her father so overbearing. Did she understand the meaning of her father’s presence here?
She appeared thoroughly chagrined. Mark sent encouraging glances her way, trying to reassure her of his support. Even he admitted, however, the appearance of her father on the scene unsettled him as well. But she had suffered more. Her father had already hurt her with his disastrous scheme, in which he selected a cad for a suitor.
38
If one followed the dictates of etiquette, the persons of highest rank went in to the dining room first. Mark broke with tradition and held out his elbow to Miss Cleaver. She took his arm, beginning the procession across the hall to dine. This suited his hastily-cobbled agenda to deflect suspicion. He didn’t want to give Mr. Southwood’s suspicions any credence, and perhaps he’d step up and partner Aunt Lucy.
Mark glanced over his shoulder. Oh good. Mr. Cleaver held out his arm to escort Miss Southwood. She could avoid her father for the moment. Aunt Lucy and Mr. Southwood brought up the rear. He beamed as he escorted the attractive widow into the dining room. She’d turn the lion into a lamb.
Seating arrangements perfected, even with the addition of the last-minute guest, Aunt Lucy glowed, presiding at one end of the table, appropriate for the hostess, and Mark sat at the other end.
A delectable meal was guaranteed—although Mr. Southwood’s presence did Mark’s appetite no favors. He’d told Aunt Lucy three courses were ample. In London society, three wouldn’t be adequate, but as each course comprised many dishes, tonight’s dinner would still be sumptuous. All the better to impress Melissa’s father.
A Match for Melissa Page 19