A Matchmaker's Christmas

by Donna Lea Simpson

  Cover

  A Matchmaker’s Christmas

  Twenty years ago, Beatrice Copland committed a reckless and foolish act of deceit that she’s certain ruined the life of a man she’d fallen in love with and led to his wife’s death. Now serving as companion to the stern Lady Bournaud, she leads a quiet life and attends to her duties as a kind of penance. But Lady Bournaud, trying to make amends for her own selfish ways, is opening her country estate to a few select guests for the holidays—including the man Beatrice wronged so many years ago.

  Sir David Chappell spent nearly two decades coming to terms with the haunting memory of his wife’s death. When he receives an invitation to Lady Bournaud’s for the Christmas season, he’s reluctant to go at first, but he’s sure the time away in Yorkshire will be a welcome change from London. Once there, he’s immediately captivated by the youthful beauty and genuine compassion of the lady’s companion, Beatrice Copland—all the while sensing that he’s met her before.

  Even as David pursues her and Beatrice realizes she’s still powerfully attracted to the man, she must gently rebuff his advances for fear that her damning secret will come to light and reopen his old wounds. And while Lady Bournaud watches, happily scheming to make matches for all her guests, it may take more than a Christmas miracle for David to free Beatrice’s conscience, and her heart, at last.

  Title Page

  Copyright

  A Matchmaker’s Christmas

  Donna Lea Simpson

  Beyond the Page Books

  are published by

  Beyond the Page Publishing

  www.beyondthepagepub.com

  Copyright © 2002 by Donna Lea Simpson.

  Material excerpted from The Rogue’s Folly copyright © 2001, 2014 by Donna Lea Simpson.

  Cover design and illustration by Dar Albert, Wicked Smart Designs

  ISBN: 978-1-940846-44-6

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this book. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented without the express written permission of both the copyright holder and the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Epilogue

  Excerpt from The Rogue’s Folly

  Classic Regency Romances

  Books by Donna Lea Simpson

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  “It’s been so mild today . . . almost too warm. But I have a feeling in my bones that the weather is about to change.” Beatrice Copland sat back on her heels and gazed off into the distance and the sweeping expanse of the high Yorkshire moors. The warm colors of autumn painted the scrubby trees with a palette of rust and amber, cinnabar and salmon, underlain with the color of old gold. “Soon all of this will change from gentle breezes and ripening harvests to frost and snow and icy blasts.” With a sigh, she absently snipped a chrysanthemum too close to the bud.

  She glanced swiftly up at her employer, aware suddenly that there had been no acerbic response to her musing, no sharp and acid rejoinder about the coming frosty weather or the idiocy of maundering on about it. But Lady Bournaud, well wrapped against any chill in her elegant Bath chair, was not sleeping. Her dark eyes were fixed on Beatrice, in fact, with a peculiar brightness.

  “I snipped this one too close, my lady,” Beatrice said, displaying her clumsy handiwork. Her ladyship had that look in her eye again, the one that unnerved her. Lately the old woman’s gaze had rested on her companion for far too long and with too fixed a gleam.

  “Doesn’t matter,” said the old woman. “Pick some more of the bronze, and then some of those yellow ones. Some Michaelmas daisies, too.” She relaxed back in her chair and her gaze wandered to the distant moors, where the sinking sun would soon tuck itself to bed behind the misty hills.

  With a sigh of relief Beatrice went back to her work, collecting the last buds and blooms from the south-facing flower garden. Dahlias and daisies joined the chrysanthemums in her heavily laden basket where it rested on the flagstone walk. She sniffed the air appreciatively and said, “Squire Fellows must be burning some leaves or brush nearby.” The squire rented from the Comtesse Bournaud all of the fields surrounding her gray stone manor, affectionately known as Chateau Bournaud, and farmed them, in addition to his own large acreage. He was a good tenant, caring for the land as if it were his own.

  There was no answer from the comtesse, but Beatrice was used to long silences, since the old lady had never been one to talk for the sake of hearing her own voice. “I love that scent!” She sat back on her heels again, brushing her work-reddened hand over her plain gown of brown stuff. She never wore gloves, and saw the occasional blisters and calluses as honorable penance for so many old sins. “It reminds me of my childhood. Old Squire Gorpe did the same thing. He was such an interesting character, quite one of the old school; have I ever told you about Squire Gorpe?” Beatrice glanced up once more at Lady Bournaud and paused.

  Her employer, the very English widow of the dashing Comte François Bournaud, was staring at her again.

  “I don’t believe you have, and I cannot say that I wish you to,” Lady Bournaud said dryly. “Make sure the Parson’s Pink,” she said, naming one of her favorite roses, “is well protected before the frost tonight. It’s going to be a long cold winter. Been a miserable summer and it is not likely to get any better now.”

  Now that sounded more like her ladyship! Beatrice concealed a wide smile and went back to work, her hands getting colder and her knuckles reddening as she heaped coppery chrysanthemums alongside the bronze already collected. Squire Fellows and his good wife, Mary, were to come to luncheon on the morrow and Lady Bournaud insisted on fresh-cut flowers as long as it was possible, and that no one should collect them but Beatrice.

  It was work she loved. Nothing mattered when she was in the garden and could smell the rich scents of earth and foliage, the green juices of living plants staining her naked hands. She should hate the winter, for there was no such release during the long dreary months when the ivy-covered manse was entombed in a thick layer of snow and crusted ice. But each season had its own sorrows and rewards, and she had learned long ago to take each day as it came; it was the only way for someone like her to advance through life. Looking ahead was too bleak and looking back unthinkable.
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  She cast a side glance at Lady Bournaud. The elderly woman had been even more broody lately than normal, and she was not a lighthearted lady in her best temper. But Beatrice was worried for her, and not only because with the old woman’s death would come the end of her employment and certain penury. She had come to care for the crusty beldame and would miss her.

  But still, she worked on in silence, directed by her employer’s clipped phrases. With the help of Tidwell, the ancient butler, she moved her ladyship’s Bath chair around to the west side of the manor house and began clearing the gardens there. But soon, as the sun glided toward the horizon, a chill wind drifted down from the moors, becoming more insistent as the shadows lengthened. It was almost time to go in.

  “Beatrice, I have lived a selfish and grasping life.”

  Startled, Beatrice paused, a bunch of lily tubers in her dirt-crusted hands. “My lady?” she said, gazing at her employer.

  “You heard me,” Lady Bournaud said, pushing away the blankets that swathed her completely. “I have been selfish and grasping. What part of that phrase is incomprehensible?”

  When Beatrice had first come as companion to the comtesse ten years before, the woman had been wont to pace when angry or agitated, which was often. Now, bound to a Bath chair by her weakening legs, she looked like she longed for her old release from tension. But what was upsetting her this time? Beatrice had never heard her employer speak like this.

  Her silence had been noted and interpreted.

  The comtesse fixed her challenging stare on her companion. “You just don’t know what to say in reply that is tactful. But it is true. I have been selfish and grasping and unpleasant.” Each word of condemnation was punctuated by the beating of one large, gnarled hand on her blanket-covered knee. “I have outlived my usefulness.” Her pink-rimmed eyes unfocussed, her voice falling to normal tones, she continued, “I hate this present age of music I don’t understand, prissy young folk allowed to marry wherever they wish, and a mad old king. Younger than me, the poor, sad fellow. And the war just over . . . it killed so many, wounded so many more. And riots in the countryside. Used to be men wanted to work for a living; now all they want is to break looms and riot for bread!”

  Beatrice knew better than to join that particular argument. They had talked about it many times, but the old woman did not seem to see that the times were changing so rapidly; swifter, more efficient looms had left many without employment. The work ethic had not declined, there were just no jobs. Without work, there was no bread for the children, and when men could not feed their children they became restive and violent. Lady Bournaud was not unsympathetic, but she was still living in her memory, a halcyon era when any man who wanted to could find work weaving or working the land. And so Beatrice, fearing her employer’s agitation, stayed silent.

  She dusted off her hands, instead, rose stiffly and came to kneel at the side of the Bath chair. She pulled the blankets around the old woman, feeling the chill herself now that she had stopped her work. She shivered. The light was dying. “Are you sure you are all right, my lady?”

  “I am fine, Beatrice, stop your incessant fussing.” She pushed the younger woman’s hands away irritably. “You will make yourself old before your time if you start clucking like a broody old hen.”

  “My lady, in less than a year I will be forty. That is quite old enough.”

  “I am four score at Christmas. That, my dear Beatrice, is old enough.” Her twisted hands plucked at the blue woolen blanket on her lap and her eyes misted. “If you are to live to my age you are only half done, child. Do not try to distract me. When François died twenty years ago, I buried myself here in Yorkshire as surely as I buried his cold, lifeless body in the ground in the cemetery behind the chapel. Since then I have done nothing but mourn.” Her gaze sharpened and she looked down at Beatrice, still kneeling on the cold flagstone terrace. “And I forced you to immure yourself here, as well.”

  “You forced me to nothing, my lady. You were good enough to employ me.” Beatrice smiled, taking the gnarled hands in hers and chafing them, feeling the cold, knobby joints stiffening. She massaged them; Lady Bournaud’s joints were increasingly frozen into immobility. “I am a fortunate woman and I know it. You have been so very good to me. I have a roof over my head, a comfortable bed to sleep in, good food, and my work is not onerous. I know when I am fortunate.”

  “Stuff and nonsense,” Lady Bournaud said vigorously. She gazed down at her companion curiously. What she had said to Beatrice was true. So selfish had she become that she had never given a second thought to what dreams or aspirations died when the young woman at her side became her companion ten years before. Surely Beatrice wanted more than this life, devoting every waking hour to an old woman’s crotchets? A home of her own, a family, perhaps? And yet now, approaching forty, slim and youthful still with only a couple of worry lines on her smooth forehead to show advancing age, she did seem content. Too content. She was still so young, if only she knew it. At Beatrice’s age Lady Bournaud had only just met the dashing Comte François Bournaud. At Beatrice’s age . . . The thought snagged in her mind like wool on a thorn bush. It would stay there, she knew, for rumination later, when all was quiet and the household slept.

  “Is that all it takes to make you happy?” Lady Bournaud asked. “Good food and a warm bed? I did not think you an idiot. Did you never wish to marry, Beatrice? I’ve never even asked you that, have I? Never bothered to ask if you wanted more from life than to cater to an old woman’s whims.”

  “Now you are talking foolishness,” Beatrice said, standing and stretching her limbs, hands on her hips as she arched her back. A chiff-chaff hopped under a close-by gooseberry bush and she watched him with absent eyes, shivering and rubbing her arms against the breeze that was dancing over dried grass and dead flowers. Her gaze returned to her employer. “I can only think that this evening air is doing you harm. It is growing cooler and damper by the minute.” She tried to inject some cheer in her voice, to conceal the melancholy wrought by Lady Bournaud’s intrusive questions. “Let us go in and have a treat. Mulled spiced wine, mayhap, with those ginger biscuits Cook was baking this afternoon.” With that, she kicked the brake lever on the rattan Bath chair and laboriously wheeled the comtesse up the winding flagstone path. She would have Tidwell send someone for the basket full of blossoms she was leaving behind.

  Despite Beatrice’s brisk behavior, though, Lady Bournaud did not miss the fact that her companion had not answered the questions posed. And that the younger woman’s eyes had shadowed with some old, remembered sadness. More food for thought later, in the still darkness, when she could not sleep.

  Much later, after mulled wine and biscuits and a couple of hours of desultory conversation in the crimson saloon, near the fire, Beatrice sank gratefully into her snug bed and pulled the snowy counterpane up under her chin. Her prediction of a chilly night was coming true, but at least there was a banked fire in her room. Lady Bournaud’s home was run along the most luxurious of lines, fires allowed even in the servants’ quarters—though Beatrice was in the family wing so she could be close to the comtesse—and candles everywhere.

  As she did every night, she said a silent prayer of thanks for her own good fortune and a wish for Lady Bournaud’s health. “God, protect and keep her in Your hands,” she whispered. “And grant me the strength to give her the good life she deserves for her many, many kindnesses.” And then, as always, she ended with a supplication. “And please, please let me find forgiveness at last.” She turned her face into the pillow as silent tears slid down her cheek.

  • • •

  As pearl-gray morning light peeked in, a tiny maid trotted into her ladyship’s luxurious chamber, opening forest-green curtains, stirring the fire against the pervasive chill, and offering steaming tea on a mahogany bedside tray. Lady Bournaud asked for her bed jacket and lap desk and set to work as she sipped her dark morning brew. As usual she had slept very little, but out of the ordinary was the amount
of time she had spent in the frozen darkness thinking of others. Most nights she would lose herself in old memories, happier memories. Memories of François.

  François, her adored husband of almost twenty years, had been an extraordinary man, embracing English tradition and English customs as if they were his own. He had lost much of his family in unrest in France, but England, he said, had welcomed him, and in return he loved it like he would an adopted mother who had taken him to her vast and tear-stained bosom.

  He was very Gallic, and tended to be florid in his praise. That he had chosen to wed the acerbic and sharp-tongued Lady Elizabeth, as she had been called until her marriage, had never failed to amaze folks who knew them both.

  But it had been a happy marriage. Lady Bournaud paused as she sharpened her nib and considered the actions she was about to take. Yes, this was what she wanted. For twenty years she had mourned, but now she was approaching the time when she could expect to see François very soon, and what would he ask?

  What had she been doing with her time on earth? Yes, certainly, that would be his first question, if he did not already know. Whom had she aided? Whom comforted? Could she face him and say, “Nothing and no one”? No. She would make of the end of her life some utility, some good. Selfishness had been her guide for twenty years, but now she felt urgently that she must make haste and do some good. She bent over her paper. It was only October. By December everything would be ready.

  She was sanding a letter and consulting a list, almost illegible in her crabbed, spidery handwriting, when her companion entered. “Ah, Beatrice. Good of you to join me, finally.”

  Beatrice paused just inside the door, but there was a humorous glint in the old woman’s glacial eyes. She relaxed and moved toward the bed. “I, unlike yourself, Lady Bournaud, actually sleep at night.”