The Matchmaker's Lonely Heart

by Nancy Campbell Allen

  Michael kept his tone even and his expression light. “I do not know that absence of emotion holds any sway in a debate on human evolution. I should think Darwin’s observations prove the opposite, in fact. The more man evolves, the higher his plane of morality, the greater his depth of compassion, wouldn’t you say?”

  Radcliffe nodded sagely. “Of course, you’re right.” He smiled, and added, “What a boon you bring to our little Cheery Society. I welcome a contemporary with intellect that matches my own.”

  Michael raised one brow before he could stop himself. “You find the book group to be lacking in intellectual talent?”

  Radcliffe opened his hands and gestured to the elderly women, the young men who sat with them, and then the three women who were making their way down the theatre aisle. “You see with whom we are surrounded.”

  Michael forced a chuckle he didn’t feel. “Why attend, then?”

  Radcliffe smiled broadly and repeated, “You see with whom we are surrounded. There are more unattached young women joining book groups and societies of every size and shape these days. For a man seeking a wife to mind hearth and home, it is like a garden where every flower is lovelier than the last. The garden, though, must be carefully cultivated. One must take the time necessary to find just the right blossom.”

  “As a never-married man, I confess uncertainty as to what constitutes ‘just the right blossom.’”

  “The best sort of garden flower is one who brings substance to the crystal vase, would you not agree? A fullness of beauty to grace a man’s home, and a wealth of good breeding and resources to bring a boon to the union. A good, strong family name is always the coup de grâce.”

  The lights blinked and an announcement came from the lobby that intermission was nearing its end. The crowd jostled and resumed their seats, and Miss Hampton and her friends navigated the aisle, dodging and skipping to avoid being stepped on. Miss Hampton’s hat was lost in the shuffle, and she turned around to retrieve it. Would she never remember her hatpin?

  Michael and Radcliffe both stepped aside, Miss Duvall and Miss Caldwell entered the row, and Miss Hampton, crushed hat in hand, paused just enough that Radcliffe smoothly entered next so the seating arrangement was as it had been before.

  As the lights dimmed, Michael stole a glance at his partner. She looked at him quickly and took a breath as though calming herself. He thought she might say something, but instead she shook her head and turned her attention to the stage. The lights reflected back on her profile, and Michael felt a sense of unease.

  Radcliffe seemed intrigued by Miss Hampton, whether because he found her attractive or easy prey—or both—Michael was unsure. Radcliffe’s subtle mention of a potential bride bringing a “boon to the union” also spoke of the man’s appreciation of a healthy dowry. Her name might indicate status and wealth, but Michael doubted Radcliffe knew Miss Hampton was associated with the “notorious family branch.”

  If the man proved to be genuine, and nothing more than a widower, so be it. But Michael’s instincts knew there was something more. He needed to find proof soon, however. The Chief Inspector wouldn’t allow the investigation to continue if Michael couldn’t find something to support his theory. Miss Hampton could be the key.

  One must use caution in sharing secrets or drawing others into a confidence. Be certain a friend possesses the skills necessary to remain silent.

  —The Marriage Gazette advice column

  Amelie had just arrived home following a long day of attempting to teach a young woman named Barbara the finer points of drawing room manners. The young woman had been unceremoniously dumped at the Gazette that morning by an impatient father who seemed to expect miracles. Sally had explained that the paper did not offer decorum training, but when he forked out an outrageous sum of money, Sally decided the girls could benefit from the experience of tutoring. Barbara had stubbornly dug in her heels, and Amelie couldn’t say she blamed her.

  She shook the rain from her umbrella, pleased that this time she remembered to place it in the umbrella stand. She had just removed her coat when Mrs. Burnette appeared, handing her a calling card.

  “This gentleman stopped by an hour ago,” the housekeeper told her.

  Amelie examined the thick ivory card that bore a name embossed in gold and impressive in design.

  Mr. Harold Radcliffe, solicitor

  She looked up at the housekeeper, stunned, and said, “What do you suppose he wants?”

  Mrs. Burnette took Amelie’s coat. “I suppose he wants to sit in the parlor and socialize as civilized people do.”

  Amelie’s heart pounded. Mr. Radcliffe had called on her? It was too fantastic to believe.

  “Get yourself upstairs and freshen up. He said he would return this evening.”

  She moved toward the stairs in a fog. “He’s . . . he is returning tonight?” She was torn between excitement and terror. What if he knew she had spied on his date with Miss Franklin? His intended visit might have more to do with that and less to do with “socializing as civilized people do.”

  Her foot was on the bottom stair when a knock sounded at the door. She turned as Mrs. Burnette opened it to reveal Mr. Radcliffe. His hat glistened in the lamplight and rain dappled the shoulders of his handsome black jacket. He looked past Mrs. Burnette and smiled when his eyes landed on Amelie.

  “I hope I’ve not come at an inconvenient time?” he asked.

  “Miss Hampton has only just returned home and has yet to freshen—”

  “Not an inconvenient time at all,” Amelie interrupted Mrs. Burnette. She stepped back down and joined the housekeeper at the door. “Please, Mr. Radcliffe, do come out of the rain. Mrs. Burnette, perhaps you’ll instruct one of the Wells sisters to prepare a light tea?”

  Mrs. Burnette pursed her lips, but she stepped back from the door.

  Amelie forced herself to stop twisting her fingers together and reminded herself she had no reason to feel guilty for requesting the tea. As part of the rents, Hampton House provided tea services from the tenants’ own purchased stock of food stuffs in the pantry.

  “We shall take the tea in the parlor, thank you. Mr. Radcliffe?” Amelie smiled at Mrs. Burnette, who finally took Mr. Radcliffe’s hat and coat.

  Amelie’s legs trembled slightly as she led the way to the parlor on the right. She feared she was much too nervous to enjoy tea and biscuits, so she imagined how Sally might handle the situation. Perhaps she could pretend to borrow some of her aunt’s confidence.

  Mr. Radcliffe waited until she was seated on a small sofa and then settled across from her in one of Sally’s delicate medallion-backed chairs. It was an elegant piece of furniture, and he looked every inch a polished gentleman. She was proud of herself for holding in a dramatic sigh.

  Katie Wells entered with a tea tray, which led Amelie to suspect that Mrs. Burnette had sent the girl in with tea that had already been steeping, rather than using tea from Amelie’s stash. That way, Amelie’s reputation would be preserved, because she would not have spent more than a scant few moments alone with a gentleman, even in a common room with the door wide open. When Katie set the tray at Amelie’s elbow and then took a seat with her embroidery in the corner of the room, she knew her suspicions had been correct.

  “Miss Hampton,” Mr. Radcliffe said while she poured him a cup of tea, “I hope you will forgive my impetuous nature. It is only that I so enjoyed our conversation at the play last week I simply had to call on you. I find your company refreshing and delightful, and, as Miss Duvall mentioned that you live here at Hampton House, I took it upon myself to locate the address.”

  “Sugar?”

  “One, please.”

  Amelie smiled and handed him the beverage, and then poured some for herself, gratified when the cup did not rattle against the saucer. “I am flattered, of course, and glad you found the house without trouble. That is, I presume yo
u found it without trouble?”

  “Quite, quite.” He took a sip of his tea.

  Amelie tipped her cup to her lips but couldn’t make herself actually drink anything. Hoping he didn’t notice, she pretended to swallow and then carefully held her cup and saucer on her knees. Her stomach was a mass of knots, and in the back of her mind, she whispered a prayer that she would remain calm.

  For all the advice she offered through the pages of the Gazette, her mind was frustratingly blank as to how to handle conversation with “Mr. Dashing.” Unless she found her tongue and an engaging line of dialogue soon, her opportunity would be lost. Miss Franklin had informed her that, while her date with Mr. Radcliffe had been pleasant, she did not expect further contact from him. Amelie was relieved that she was not stabbing a fellow husband-seeker in the back.

  “Tell me, Miss Hampton, about your family. You hail from Frockshire, I understand? How are you related to Miss Sally Hampton, who owns this beautiful home?”

  Amelie breathed a small sigh of relief. Mr. Radcliffe was extending a helping hand, and she gratefully took it. “I am indeed from Frockshire, and I am the third of four children. My elder two sisters are married—well, Sophia is widowed—and my younger brother, Stephen, is finishing at university. My parents, sadly, have already passed.”

  Mr. Radcliffe paused, and although it was a fraction of a moment, Amelie felt a subtle shift. He took a sip of his tea and then smiled. “Of course. Your family is the other—”

  Amelie inwardly winced. She nodded, flushing. “The other side of the Hampton family, yes.” Her family tree held itinerant gamblers, gentlemen three generations back who lost land and titles in games of chance. Bold, adventurous types who seemed to have passed their colorful love of life to her aunt. Where they were reckless, though, Sally possessed extraordinarily sound judgment.

  “And your aunt?” Mr. Radcliffe prompted.

  “Aunt Sally is my father’s sister. She is truly a woman of independent means.” Amelie smiled. “Sally Hampton is a force of nature, and although I would never be so bold as she is, I quite admire her.” Amelie ignored the pang of guilt she felt at telling a small untruth. She would dearly love to be as bold as her aunt, but to admit it to a potential suitor—if Mr. Radcliffe was indeed such—would be a nail in the marital coffin. A gentleman did not seek out bold women when searching for a wife.

  “I have heard tales of your aunt, all good, of course.” Mr. Radcliffe stilled again, but the smile remained in place. “She is the powerful force behind the Marriage Gazette, is she not?”

  Amelie felt like a rabbit caught in a snare. She should have foreseen the conversation’s direction. “She is.” She swallowed, but lifted her chin. “She rescued the Gazette from bankruptcy and has built a veritable empire from the ashes using her own good business sense and resources.”

  Mr. Radcliffe chuckled, his handsome face relaxing into ease. “You do well to champion your aunt.” He nodded definitively. “She is unconventional, but admirable.”

  Amelie was certain she only imagined Mr. Radcliffe’s patronizing tone. Sitting with him in her parlor was a singularly surreal experience, and that would account for her inability to think clearly. And she certainly did not want to give Mr. Radcliffe the impression that she was a hostile sort of person. She was demure. Proper. An ideal sort of woman.

  Her mind flashed back to the night she had spied on Mr. Radcliffe and Miss Franklin, and she shoved the image aside. True, that had not been at all proper, but the cause had been just.

  “I have heard of your aunt’s extensive travels. I assume she hasn’t much time to slake the wanderlust these days?”

  “Indeed. The Gazette has kept her homebound for some time. Now and again, though, she does manage a quick escape.”

  “I find it gracious of her to have opened this delightful home.” Mr. Radcliffe finished his tea and set the cup and saucer on the tray. “What a remarkable family you have.”

  Amelie smiled. “I am certain my aunt would be delighted to meet you.” She hoped that was not too forward, too bold. Rather, she hoped it was a subtle indication that she appreciated Mr. Radcliffe’s attention and would welcome more.

  “As I would be, as well.” His expression turned serious, and he looked at her earnestly. “Miss Hampton, I suppose you are aware that I am recently widowed. In fact, were it not for a pardon from my former vicar, I would still find myself officially in mourning. He has approved my use of the black armband you must have seen on my jacket.”

  Amelie nodded, although she had not noticed the armband at all. She had also never heard of a vicar excusing a person’s mourning period.

  “I feel, though,” he sighed, “that my late wife is most anxious for me to . . . to move forward with the life we had hoped and planned for together. She was gone so soon.” His brow wrinkled with emotion, and Amelie’s heart melted. “I am still here, though, and wish desperately for a full and happy home with children and a mother to love and cherish them. And me.” He cleared his throat and looked down at his folded hands. “A home that mirrors the heaven our dear Queen Victoria would have us all enjoy.”

  Amelie placed her hand on her heart. “Oh, Mr. Radcliffe, of course you would still yearn for such things. I am so sorry for the untimely loss of your dear wife.”

  The man seemed so broken in that moment, and the memory of his sweet wife was only that. He was alone in the world, his dreams of love having been cruelly cut short. He was a man with the soul of a poet whose sadness and loss cut deeply. He suddenly seemed more approachable, more real. The fact that he still clearly loved his first wife did much to restore her faith in marriages based on love. He wasn’t looking to replace her, but to continue forward. She felt herself relax.

  “Have you siblings, other family with whom you visit?” she asked.

  “Ah, I do not have the same fortune as do you. I hope you relish your kinship and take joy in each visit, each holiday spent together. My parents and brothers were involved in a carriage accident while I was away at school.” His brow creased again. “They did not survive. The worst of it is that the last words I spoke to my father were those of anger.”

  “How tragic,” Amelie said, a lump forming in her throat. She forced herself not to ask what words of anger he had spoken and the reason for them, although her curiosity had climbed several notches. “I would be lost without my cousins and aunt.”

  “You are a wise woman to recognize the gift of a loving family.” Mr. Radcliffe nodded sagely and offered a sad, handsome smile. He sat up straighter as if to shake off his melancholy. “But here I have gone off into the weeds while we are having a lovely tea. The hour grows late. It has been a delight to be with you, Miss Hampton, and again I do hope you will forgive the suddenness of my call, and the fact that I did not even spare you the time to freshen from your day.” Mr. Radcliffe tipped his head with a smile. “Not that it was even necessary, if I might be so bold.”

  “It has been my pleasure, Mr. Radcliffe, and I hope you will feel free to call again. My days during the week are busy in Town, but my weekends are free for entertainment or social pursuits.” Amelie felt a stab of disappointment that the call was at an end, but relieved she’d managed to reclaim some of her social graces.

  She stood and waited for Mr. Radcliffe to rise also, and then saw him to the door where he gathered his coat and hat. She spotted Katie Wells leaving the parlor with the tea tray, her chaperoning tasks at an end, and from the corner of her eye, spied movement from the dining room, accompanied by the quiet rustle of fabric.

  She fought a wry smile and bid Mr. Radcliffe a pleasant evening. Her heart skipped a beat when he bowed over her fingers, and again when he brushed the lightest of kisses on her knuckles. He smiled, and she closed the door quietly behind him.

  “Amelie!” Evangeline whispered loudly as she and Charlotte ventured from the dining room. She clasped Amelie’s hands and squeezed. �
��You had tea with Mr. Radcliffe!”

  Amelie’s head spun, and she laughed. “I did! How long were you listening at the keyhole?”

  Charlotte looked at the closed front door and chewed on her lip. “What do you think of him?” she asked Amelie, propelling her back into the parlor.

  “He seems lovely, mourning for his wife, lonely.” Amelie sank down on the sofa with her cousins. “I know that expression, Miss Charlotte Duvall, and it means you are skeptical of something.”

  Charlotte sighed. “He seems lovely, I suppose.” She paused, “It’s only that . . .”

  “Out with it, if you please.” Amelie folded her arms.

  “I once heard my brother, Nicholas, plying a local girl with fine words and deep emotion, but I knew he was fibbing—exaggerating, at least—to win her favor. Mr. Radcliffe sounded much that way to me tonight.” She lifted her shoulder. “You know I would love nothing more than for you to find the charming prince of your dreams, and I would love for it to be this man. You’ve eyed him from a quiet distance for a while, and he seems interested.”

  Eva squeezed Amelie’s hand again. “You’ve time to ascertain his character, yes? He seems intent on calling again, and he was conscientious of asking about your life and family. Some gentlemen talk so much of themselves there is room for nobody else in the conversation.”

  “He did seem interested in your family,” Charlotte agreed, nodding slowly. “Especially Aunt Sally.”

  Amelie sighed. “He was merely being polite. I was so tongue-tied in the beginning it was incumbent upon him to carry the conversation.”

  Charlotte held up her hands, palms out. “You mustn’t be irritated with me for injecting a note of caution into your happy glow. I do not mean to dampen it, but merely urge you to exercise care. I love you dearly and do not wish to see you hurt.”