“Miss Southwood, I hope my words do not cause you discomfort, but I need to ascertain whether you are amenable to me renewing my suit at this time. I must obtain your father’s permission, but before approaching him, I want to make sure you would consider me.”
“Please call me Melissa—at least when no sticklers are in earshot. I’d love to consider you if father approves. After all, you did save me from a cruel fate, and for that alone I hold you in high regard.”
“Only due to that? And here I was beginning to think you liked me.”
“We do have much in common, not the least of which is our faith, not to mention our interest in the same type of charity work. But are you certain now is the moment…Mark?”
“In my humble opinion, yes. Now is the time, I am sure.”
“I see. I, too, have enjoyed our various interactions, but I’ll need to mull it over.”
His heart plummeted to the soles of his shiny black-tasseled boots. After all his patient waiting, it wasn’t easy to understand why she needed time to think. He worked to keep the smile on his face. She did say she enjoyed their interactions and had a lot in common. That was something.
“Mull?” He stalled, thinking furiously. He didn’t want to manipulate her, and his intentions were good. Surely, God would forgive him—he merely wanted her to love him enough to marry him. Still, seeing an opportune moment for his suit to prosper, he marshaled his wits and began to talk.
“I’d like to explain myself.” He glanced at Miss Dean, relieved to see her still occupied with studying the sundial a good thirty feet away. “My dear, you must remember the day we first encountered each other in London? How we met at your home, the day my suit was rejected by your father?”
“I clearly recall that meeting.”
“Yes? My heart was engaged the moment I laid eyes on you there. My desire to court you has not diminished over the intervening months.”
“Oh! But you’d seen me here at the vicarage. Did I not win your admiration then?” She twirled the tassel on her shawl.
“Ah yes, you may not realize that I was half out of my head. I even got confused and asked if you were an angel. You called on me at the manor. Then you were gone, and I had to not only recuperate but also to adjust to the estate’s management duties.”
He read her expression as dazzled and confused but forged ahead. “Don’t think I forgot you. I just didn’t know you the way I do now. I walked over here this morning to have this chance to speak with you.”
“I am enjoying your choice of topic.”
Her harmless flirting amused him. She was charming. “Wonderful. Your father is out strolling with my aunt this morning, so while he’s busy, I thought it a good moment to slip away to see you. I plan to meet with him as soon as possible to request formal permission to court you. Please—I want to be able to tell him you are ready to be courted again.”
She looked down and fingered the edge of her shawl before responding. “I, too, have enjoyed our acquaintance. When you came to the house, and me already being courted by…that other man…it was a surprising turn of events for me. My gratitude to you for rescuing me exceeds all bounds. The Lord knew I would need help, and surely he caused you to enter the nave of St. George’s church when you did.”
“I believe so, too. Please say you agree to my suit?” He wanted to wrap her in his arms and reassure her of his love. The urge was strong, but this was not the time.
“I’ll admit I am favorable to you, but the timing…and my father.” Her face paled. “I fear he will give you the right about.”
“Why? He wants a nobleman to marry you.” It made logical sense.
“He’s the type of man to say no perhaps out of caprice or a desire to be in control, regardless of the fact he is a guest in your house. He prefers everything to be his idea.”
“Are you afraid of him?”
“No, but I can’t say I’ve ever witnessed anyone get the victory over him when his mind is made up. Knowing him as I do makes it hard for me to answer. I don’t wish my father’s wrath on your head.” She gazed off into the distance
Clearly, she was stalling for time…time to heal. Touching her chin with his fingertips, he gently turned her face toward his. She met his eyes. “Don’t worry. I am not afraid. I intend to win his permission. When I court you, it will be with full parental approval and only when you are ready.” Determination blossomed in his heart, and the warm depths of her gaze spurred him on. The drive to make her his own grew stronger every moment he spent with her.
He bent over, about to kiss her hand, when something whizzed by his ear.
“My lord! What was that?” Miss Southwood asked.
“To the best of my knowledge, it was a bullet. We must get to the safety of the vicarage.” His arm around Melissa’s shoulder, he called out to Miss Dean. “There was a stray shot. Follow us.” He shepherded the women into the house.
Cassandra met them in the hall, eyebrows raised. “I heard the crack. Sounded like a gunshot. Are there poachers in the vicinity?”
“Hard to know. Seems odd that someone would be shooting around the vicarage.” Mark kept his tone calm.
Melissa’s fingers fluttered to her forehead, and she paled. “You could have been killed. Gun accidents are not an everyday matter. Something must be done.”
“Cassandra, please have tea brought to the sitting room,” Miss Dean said, and then took Melissa’s arm and guided her to a comfortable chair.
Mark followed and stood by Melissa’s chair, about to speak, but a knock came on the outer door. A maid soon ushered in Mr. Southwood.
“Melissa. I’d like to speak with you.” He looked at Mark, affronted. “Surprised to find you here.”
Realizing it would be inappropriate to remain longer, Mark hoped that by leaving by the front of the house, he’d be out of sight of the shooter. “That’s all right. I was just leaving. Farewell, Miss Southwood, Mr. Southwood.” Mark departed.
Melissa half-rose as if to protest, biting her lip. How he hated to worry her.
~*~
Melissa said a quick prayer for Mark’s safe return home. She took a deep breath to calm herself. “Papa, to what do I owe this impromptu visit?” Melissa sensed her father had something on his mind. Playing for time, she lifted a nearby bud vase and inhaled the calming scents of lavender and roses.
He sank down into the chair across from hers. “Can’t a father visit his daughter without an excuse?”
“Of course. It’s just that, knowing you, I expected there to be an agenda.” Turning, she spoke to Miss Dean. “You may be excused, Miss Dean. Now would be a good time to mend that torn hem we noticed earlier.” Miss Dean nodded and left the room just as Cassandra brought in a tray.
“Here you are, miss.” Cassandra set the tray down without the slightest clatter and departed.
Melissa took her time preparing two cups of tea and gestured to her father to partake before raising her own cup to her lips. A restorative was certainly in order…what with the shot and the coming confrontation.
After a moment in which Mr. Southwood wore the look of someone measuring his words, he picked up the thread of conversation. “My dear, the only agenda is for me to ask your forgiveness.” He wiped his forehead with a linen square.
“I’d certainly be happy to grant that, but I must know what it is I am forgiving,” she spoke evenly, surprising herself with her composure. A pleasant breeze moved the dimity curtains at the nearby window. She sat across from him and waited.
“Where do I start? I feel so guilty for the way I behaved during the last year—dismissing Miss Cleaver, raging about your mother’s death, refusing to attend church. Those are for starters. Then my poor choice of a suitor for you, almost causing your ruin. I’m heartily sorry, and I humbly beg your forgiveness.”
“Papa, it’s yours. Thank you for such a full expression of your remorse. We need say no more for now. I am very pleased you are on an even keel again.”
He picked up
his cup and saucer, probably tepid now. “We miss your mother, don’t we? But we have the hope of seeing her again in glory. She’s gone where I cannot follow until it’s my time to go. I can accept that now.”
Holding back tears, Melissa leaned forward and patted her father’s knee. “I miss Mama, too. It would have been wonderful to enjoy her with us longer.”
“I wonder what she’d think of Mrs. Banting, er, and her nephew?”
41
Pondering her remarkable visit with Mr. Southwood, Lucy sat alone under her parasol. She heard someone approaching, singing.
“Since with my God with perfect heart…” Abruptly, Mr. Cleaver ceased his song as he came into the clearing and lifted his hat. “Good morning, Mrs. Banting.”
My, he was tall. “Good morning. Was that a Psalm?”
“Yes, a versification of Psalm eighteen.”
“Ah. I too love the Psalms. Reverend, do tell me what brings you to Russell Manor this fine day.”
“Certainly, but first, please call me Mr. Cleaver. I don’t use the title Reverend. Or better yet, call me Jeremiah, if you’d like.”
Warning bells went off. First name basis? Only if she wanted to encourage him—and none too sure about that, she nattered on, not addressing his implications. “Aren’t you busy with parish matters? Perhaps calling on the sick?” She twirled her bamboo-handled parasol.
“Merely on my daily walk, and I spied you among the blossoms. Wanted to pay my regards and thank you for the delightful dinner party last night. No doubt I’ll be home well before I’m needed to resume pastoral duties. In fact, would you like to take a stroll?”
“Delighted.” She placed one hand on his extended arm to rise and held the parasol in her other hand. She left her hand on his arm as they moved down the garden path.
“How are the knitting classes going?”
How thoughtful he was. “Oh, thank you for asking. Quite well. I am surprised how easily the women are taking to it.”
“I heard about it from Cassandra. The new maid we hired at the vicarage.”
“That Cassandra. She’s an ideal student—since she knows how to knit already.” Lucy chuckled. “Not a dropped stitch or a tangle. She can help the other women, too. Such a blessing.”
“She is terribly talented. Each day seems to bring a new revelation of her gifts. Languages, music, needlework—it has no end. Little did we know what a paragon had landed at our kitchen door.”
“A perfect fit as a companion for Miss Cleaver, too?”
“They get along famously. Back to your class, though. How many women attend?”
“Sixteen. Some from both the manor and the village. So you see why I need Cassandra’s help. Oh, and she leads prayers at the beginning and end of each session.”
“A marvel.”
“She has a beautiful voice and can start us off on the right note, too. Singing while we knit—who’d have known how fun it would be.”
“What are you knitting?”
“The whole class can knit scarves now. We shall be moving on to caps, next. We hope to learn stockings before the end of the year.”
Lucy couldn’t recall when she’d been this comfortable with a minister. She hazarded a few imaginative guesses as to why he’d never married. Maybe he never experienced the urge toward pairing off with a female. Some men eschewed marriage when they entered the church. Or perhaps he had a tragic love story. Perhaps, with his unofficial confirmed bachelor status, the women of the vicinity had given up on him. I’m just curious, nothing more.
She wondered if he harbored a tendre for her, stumbling upon her so conveniently, such as he had, though it could have been happenstance. For certain he acted comfortable with her. Maybe it’s because they were of the same vintage. “Mr. Cleaver, what do you think of the flowers?”
“Pardon me? My apologies, Mrs. Banting. I must have gotten caught up in a daydream—one of my besetting faults.”
“Give it nary a thought. A place like this induces musings. I merely asked your esteemed opinion on the flowers.”
“The flowers, you ask? Russell Manor’s exemplary gardens provide a feast of fragrance and beauty. The grounds here are some of the most agreeable I’ve had the pleasure of experiencing.”
While he waxed on about the flowers, she decided she may have been mistaken about his intentions. He wasn’t trying to fix her interest. Perhaps her suspicion of him cherishing tender feelings was absurd. He was a good friend, a pleasant neighbor, a fine minister.
Maybe she should interrupt his talk about flowers and attempt to ascertain his intentions. “Do you have many widows in your parish?” There. That got his attention.
“Many? I wouldn’t say many. The ones we have are quite old. You are by far the youngest widow I am aware of.”
Awareness. That’s a clue. “Do you believe widows should remain unwed?”
“No, I don’t. A woman does well to remarry—many benefits adhere to the wedded state, and for no reason should most widows forego marriage.”
“I’ve heard tales of heirs being against remarriage so as to keep control of their mother’s fortunes.”
“But you have no children, correct?”
Hmm, now he was venturing onto personal territory. “Alas, I don’t. Mark is my heir, but he has such a grand fortune of his own, he doesn’t care a farthing to add mine to his. He’s never breathed a word of opposition.”
“Such a fine young man, your nephew. I had no idea he had such a beautiful aunt.” He laid his free hand on hers.
That remark cleared up any doubts. The dear man called her beautiful. She withdrew her hand and grasped the parasol with two hands. No sense encouraging him unless she was sure she wanted to draw him unto herself. To decide that would take some time. Much to think about with two swains.
The interesting interlude came to an end when a footman appeared around the end of a nearby hedge. He bowed and said, “Mrs. Banting, two gentlemen, Sir Walsh and Lord Armbruster, have arrived. They say they are distant relatives.”
“That’s a surprise. Tell them I’ll be in soon to greet them. Place them in the morning room and get them tea.”
Turning toward Mr. Cleaver, she touched his arm with her fingertips and said, “I’ve so enjoyed our chat. I feel ever so uplifted by your visit. Please walk back to the house with me. I hope we can do this again. These two relatives that arrived are somewhat of a trial—so pray for me.”
“That I shall.” After that, he fell silent. Reaching the house, Mr. Cleaver bowed over her hand. “Farewell, ma’am.”
“Adieu—until we meet again.” Mrs. Banting let him go with a sigh.
Uninvited guests were often a bother, but these two were in a class by themselves. Their presence was sure to be a chore. She’d never liked the custom which decreed propertied nobles must accommodate drop-in visits from any aristocrat, related or not, who happened to be traveling in the vicinity of a country estate. With society so rule-bound, why did this egregious liberty prevail?
Slipping in through the French doors, she came upon the guests, heads together, engaged in agitated whispering.
A ladylike throat-clearing caught their attention. “Good morning. To what do we owe the pleasure of a visit?” Pasting a social smile on her face, she moved toward them but halted out of reach. She wanted to afford no opportunities for hand mauling from these two. The few times she’d ever met them, at large family gatherings, their off-putting personalities were unforgettable.
Lord Armbruster, the larger of the two, rose and performed a flourishing bow. “Mrs. Banting, charmed.” His deep voice held a false note of sycophancy. He flopped back into his chair.
Sir Walsh now did the pretty, creaking over at the waist for a bow before raising a quizzing glass to look her over—aping the affectations of a London fop. “We are delighted to see you, Mrs. Banting. It’s been too long.”
Not long enough for her. Steeling her spine, she engaged them in social conversation. “What brings you our way?”
“Passing through. Never want to neglect family ties.” Armbruster crossed his arms over his chest after this remark.
“And you, Sir Walsh, do you travel much?”
“Tra-la. Much travel. Trot trot.”
Oh my. The man’s a lunatic. “I see. How is the tea? Hot?” She indicated their cups with a tilt of her head and a lift of her brows.
“Superior tea. Perhaps some biscuits would be nice. It’s been a long morning since we were ousted—I mean rousted—from bed.”
She turned to a lurking footman and requested a plate of baked goods. While waiting, she interacted more, but the men never clearly indicated why they appeared at Russell Manor other than ‘passing through’ and ‘dropping by.’ She could only assume they were perhaps low on funds, traveling from one victim to another, each too polite to refuse them hospitality, by which means they avoided paying room and board by freeloading.
Sir Walsh wheedled, “You’ll put us up?”
“I’ll meet with the housekeeper. She’ll have a couple of guest rooms aired within the hour. A servant will come for you when the rooms are ready. You may relax here ’til then. I’ve ordered a plate of biscuits, which should be here soon.”
“Tra la, biscuits.” Sir Walsh rubbed his hands together.
“Lunch is served at one o’clock. You’ll be in your rooms by then, so listen for the gong.” She pointed to the clock and sailed out without a backward glance.
After making arrangements for Russell Manor’s two uninvited guests and requesting a pot of tea brought to her rooms, Lucy went to her bedroom. She put her feet up and laid her head on the back of the chair. It was time for a respite. Being squired about by two men on the same morning, and then for two relatives to arrive to stay proved tiring. She’d met them in the past, but as to why they chose to appear here in the country during the season didn’t make sense. From all she could recollect of them, Sir Walsh and Lord Armbruster were social animals and loath to be apart from London’s doings. Why were they here?
A Match for Melissa Page 21