A Matchmaker's Christmas

by Donna Lea Simpson

  “But it is like a horse, you see, choosing a wife,” Vaughan said. “As long as her wind is good and her legs sturdy, good teeth, decent disposition, nothing vicious about her, then she’ll do.”

  In the face of such absurdity, Chappell was silent. If the young man got his way and was invited to stay, it boded ill for the peace of this Christmas season. He trailed after the baron into the saloon.

  Beatrice noticed immediately that Chappell’s expression held more than a hint of worry as he reentered behind the baron. The younger man went immediately to Lady Bournaud and bowed over her hand, though he spared a glance for Lady Silvia first. A smug expression crossed his too-handsome face.

  “My lady, may I thank you deeply for your splendid hospitality. I cannot thank you enough. I have been elevated from hell directly into heaven.” He swept a hand around, indicating the warm room, blazing hearth and assembled company.

  Graciously, Lady Bournaud nodded. “Sit here, young man,” she said, directing him to the chair that Chappell had sat in. The knight, having lost his seat to the younger man, moved around to the other side of Beatrice and pulled a low chair over to sit beside her. Beatrice felt the heat of his body near hers and agitation budded at his closeness, but she set herself the challenge of ignoring her perturbation.

  “I have been trying to think,” the comtesse continued, “where I have heard your name before, and it seems to me . . . are you the son of Viscount Norcross?”

  “I am. Do you know him?”

  “I rather think we are related. Or at least your mother and I are.”

  Beatrice watched the comtesse’s eyes. There was some scheme afoot, but she had no idea what her employer had in mind.

  “Related? Is that so?” Vaughan sat back, very much a gentleman at his ease now that he was warm and dry, and sitting with good company. A footman brought in the tray of decanters and offered the gentlemen port, which Chappell and Vaughan both quickly accepted. Rowland waved it off.

  “Yes.” Lady Bournaud looked over the company, frowning when she saw Rowland solicitously offering Lady Silvia a dainty glass of sherry. She turned her attention back to the young baron and said, “In fact, I believe my father was your mother’s great-uncle on her maternal side.”

  “If you say it is so, my lady, I must concur.” He grinned, his blue eyes twinkling. “I think I would agree to anything your ladyship might suggest, so smitten am I with your charm and graciousness.”

  “Pish-tush, you scoundrel. But in light of that relationship, I have a suggestion to make.”

  Beatrice, an idea dawning in her mind, watched as the two bent their heads together and murmured, but was distracted by Sir David’s voice near her ear.

  “There will be trouble brewing in paradise,” he said, “if this young man gets his way.”

  Trying to ignore the warmth of his port-scented breath and the trill of pleasure that trickled down her back like warm bathwater, she turned her face slightly toward him, but then moved back when she found their mouths so close together. “W-what do you mean, sir?” she said, her voice unaccustomedly breathy.

  “Lord Vaughan has spied Lady Silvia, and being in the market for an acceptable wife to keep him from the dread fate of the colonies, has decided on a spot of instant wooing.”

  “Oh, dear,” Beatrice said, glancing over at Lady Silvia, whose attention was wholly taken up by the reverend. Verity, she noticed, was restlessly prowling the room, exploring the nooks and crannies, upsetting knickknacks, and examining a porcelain horse she found on a side table.

  “Yes,” Chappell said. “That will fit in well with Lady Bournaud’s plans, though, will it not?”

  “You . . . you know of her plans?”

  “I know her well enough to see when a spot of matchmaking is in the works. And look at those two,” he said, indicating Lord Vaughan and his hostess. They still murmured together, and Lady Bournaud cast occasional glances over at the reverend and Lady Silvia. “They are conspiring.”

  “I do not know what has gotten into the comtesse,” Beatrice fretted. “She has never done anything like this before.”

  Chappell sat back. “Perhaps that is the answer. Is it just boredom, or the doldrums that brought this on?”

  “No,” Beatrice said, worrying at her lower lip with her teeth.

  “Is the other matchmaking, then, perhaps just a concealment for her real aim?”

  “What do you mean?”

  He smiled, but remained silent.

  Had he guessed? Beatrice, her agitation growing, swallowed as he bent closer to her and put his hand on her arm. His face was close to hers, and she knew her cheeks were flushing an unbecoming cherry red, but there was no stopping physical reactions.

  And she remembered all those years ago, how his mere presence in the same room had done exactly the same. How many evenings had she spent longing for and yet fearing his notice? How many times had she watched him when he did not even know she was there? She knew the angle of his jaw and the curvature of his ear, the crisp curl of his hair at the temple and slight hook of his nose. Those were still the same but now there were crinkles at the corners of his crystalline blue eyes, and the curls were lightened with a liberal sprinkling of glittering silver.

  He smelled so good, spicy and warm, like wool and cinnamon. And his hand on her arm flexed occasionally; to her addled thinking it felt like a caress. She sighed and tried to rein in her wild imaginings and wayward thoughts. This train of thought was not good, not at all. She must be sensible. And yet, how could she be, when his well-shaped lips were so close?

  He glanced up at her and caught her gaze. His own countenance, just by a tiny movement of his head, indicated that he knew she had been staring at him and wondered at it. If she could have blushed any deeper, without doubt she would have, but as it was, all she could do was to look away into the fire, examining again the soot-darkened bricks, and tracing the baroque intricacy of the carved hearth and mantelpiece.

  “We have come to an agreement,” Lady Bournaud said suddenly.

  The entire company paid attention, for her ladyship’s voice was a clarion call. Even Verity Allen strayed closer, standing behind Lady Silvia’s chair as that young lady and the reverend directed their gaze to the comtesse.

  Lady Bournaud cleared her throat and said, “I set out to re-create for myself the Christmases of old, with family and friends gathered around me. I am well satisfied with my decision so far, and in the spirit of the season and in light of his relationship to me, I have invited Lord Vaughan to stay here in Yorkshire for the Christmas season, and he has graciously agreed.”

  Chapter Seven

  “Mr. Rowland has asked if he may visit you, my lady,” Beatrice said, taking away the tray of breakfast dishes from Lady Bournaud’s lap and placing it near the door for the maid to collect.

  “I would like to see him,” the old woman said, straightening her lace cap and pinning it more securely to her white hair. When she finished, she said, “My arms ache so. I wish it did not hurt to lift them like that.”

  “That is why you have me,” Beatrice said gently, affixing the cap more securely and primping her employer’s hair.

  Lady Bournaud caught her hand and patted it. “And for all my barking, I do appreciate you, my dear.”

  The compliment caught her so by surprise that Beatrice was speechless.

  The older woman chuckled. “Flustered you, eh?” She settled back against her pillows and watched as her companion straightened her side table, pouring a fresh glass of water and arranging the books, handkerchiefs and oddments that were a part of Lady Bournaud’s comfort. “So what think you of my scheme to liven up our Christmas season?”

  “I think you have indeed found a way to liven things up, but that chance has played into your hands, too.”

  A secretive smile lifted the corners of the comtesse’s mouth. “Indeed. I think the Almighty approves of my plans.”

  “I think we should not be assuming the Almighty approves or disapproves
any of our infinitely insignificant doings.” Beatrice sat on the edge of the bed and gazed down at the older woman. “My lady,” she started, but then hesitated. She looked away, but then looked back, down at the elderly woman, who seemed to be shrinking as each month passed. “May I speak my mind?”

  “Do I pay you to speak your mind?”

  With a sigh, Beatrice rose. “No, my lady. You pay me to agree with you.” She turned to leave.

  “Wait!” Lady Bournaud had an irritable expression on her seamed face. The blue veins underlying her skin gave a cool tint to her face that heightened the arctic frost of her gray eyes. “Come back here.” She slapped the bed, and Beatrice obediently resumed her position, seated on the edge of it. “I take it you do not agree with my plans for these young people?”

  “I cannot help but think,” Beatrice started, realizing that she had been given permission to speak more freely, “that you should let nature have some hand in all of this. You have done what you can to set things in motion, and it is all well and good to introduce young people to each other, but now you should let them find their own happiness.” She stopped and stared down at the carpet. “And the older people too,” she finished.

  “Ah.” There was silence for a minute. “Is there something you wish to tell me, my dear? Something about your long-ago Season in London?”

  “Why would you ask such a thing?” Beatrice knew that she had already said too much. If she was not willing to divulge the truth, then she must stay clear of the subject entirely.

  A maid came into the room at that moment to retrieve the tray, and Lady Bournaud called out, “Nellie, ask Tidwell to fetch Mr. Rowland.” The girl curtseyed and exited. Turning back to her companion, Lady Bournaud said, “I would ask such a thing because there seems to be something . . .” The comtesse trailed off and studied Beatrice’s face. Almost to herself she muttered, “All right, my girl. If you wanted to tell me, you would have by now. Go show Mr. Rowland in.”

  Beatrice moved toward the door but stopped just short of it and turned. “My lady, you have ever been kind to me and you know how deeply I appreciate it, but—”

  “But I did not purchase your soul, and your secrets are your own,” the old lady finished irritably. “Go! I know that. Go tell Mark to come in.”

  Pulling the door closed behind her, Beatrice stood for a moment, staring down at the carpet. What she would not give to be divested of the weight she carried, the taint she harbored. But it was not to be. If she could just get through the next three weeks . . .

  Mark Rowland approached from the top of the stairs, and Beatrice found a smile for the young man. She did like him. He was serious but not grim, though she had the feeling many would mistake his studious nature for austerity. She had seen something else in his eyes and on his face as he chatted to Lady Silvia the previous evening, but Beatrice was sorely afraid he was headed for heartbreak if that was how his preference was turning.

  “Mr. Rowland, Lady Bournaud says you may go right in.”

  “How is she this morning?” Rowland asked, gazing at the door.

  “As well as ever.”

  “I mean, her mood. She seemed . . . most inspirited last night.”

  “She is having the best time she has had for years,” Beatrice said, her tone dry. “Do you know her well, Mr. Rowland? I do not think you have been here for some time.”

  “No, not since before I went to Oxford. But I spent a summer here when I was . . . oh, sixteen, I believe. Yes, I would have been sixteen that summer.” He leaned against the paneled wall and stared down the hall into the gloom of the windowless expanse. “My aunt and Lady Bournaud are good friends, you see, and that year my parents died. I . . . I suffered a breakdown of sorts, a wandering of spirit. It was a time of great darkness and pain for me, and I was headed down a very unfortunate road. Aunt Selwyn sent me here. Lady Bournaud was there when I needed her, and yet she allowed me such freedom. I wandered the grounds, the moors, spent time, sometimes days, away from the house. And I found my calling. If it was not for her, I might have been lost in bitterness.”

  Moved by his openness and gratitude, Beatrice reached out and touched his arm. He gave her a quick smile. “I feel sure, Mr. Rowland, that you would have found your way regardless, but I am glad Lady Bournaud was a part of your healing.”

  “Yes,” he said eagerly. “She was, you see, and that is why I feel I can help her to heal this rift with my Aunt Selwyn. It is too bad, such a tiff between friends.”

  Beatrice remained silent.

  Rowland’s brow wrinkled under his sweep of dark hair. He pushed back the stray locks and said, “Perhaps I should have said nothing.”

  Beatrice, fuming internally, said, “No, it is all right, Mr. Rowland. I feel quite sure you will solve this . . . this rift between Lady Bournaud and her friend with very little difficulty at all.”

  Rowland brightened. “Do you think so?”

  “I am sure of it. I guarantee you will mend whatever quarrel existed.”

  • • •

  Rowland slipped into the room. Miss Copland had assured him that Lady Bournaud was awake, and so though her eyes were closed, he moved toward the bed. She had changed with the passing years. He had been taken up with his studies and then with the necessary work involved in maintaining a curacy. Any time he had free he spent with his Aunt Cordelia Selwyn, who was aging rapidly, though her mind and spirit were still copper-bright.

  The comtesse, laying with her eyes closed, pale against the white coverlet of her bed, seemed smaller than the stern and yet somehow welcoming woman he remembered from his youth. Since that time they had only corresponded by mail, but he had seen the steady decline of her penmanship, the letters becoming wavery and harder to read with the years.

  “My lady,” he said softly, watching the pale eyes flutter open and the knobby hand reach up and touch her white lace cap, settled firmly on her white hair. “May I speak with you?”

  “Certainly, Mark. Draw up a chair. You see me in my morning attire; I have taken up the elegant affectation of staying abed until luncheon.”

  Mark dragged a chair close to the bed and captured one of her hands in his own, feeling how stiff the joints were and how crooked with age. “You are entitled to your ease, my lady.”

  She moved restlessly under the covers. “And yet I wish I could still walk. Losing the power of movement is an affliction I am ill prepared to bear. You’ve become a man, Mark, in the years since I last saw you.” She rolled to her side and reached out her free hand, pushing the heavy hair off his brow. “You were so slim and dark and intense as a boy. You’ve filled out, and your spirit, it is . . .”

  “Calm?” He smiled and squeezed her hand. “I have you to thank for that. By the time I left here that summer the broken part of me had knit and I had found my future.”

  “So you really are happy in your chosen life?”

  “I am. I have not had a chance to tell you my good news yet. I have a preferment, Loughton, in Hampshire. It is a good living and due, again, to you. My patron is an old beau of yours, if I am not mistaken.” He named the gentleman.

  Lady Bournaud smiled. “Ah, yes. We were good friends an age ago, in London. I am so happy for you.”

  “But now, my lady,” Mark said, gazing at the blue-veined hand he held in his own, “I was distressed to hear about your rift with my Aunt Selwyn. You have been friends all your life. What has come between you?” He examined the pale eyes and saw a shift, like a change of light, within them.

  “Well, you know, I forgot to write to you. Cordelia and I have settled our little difference. Just a silly misunderstanding.”

  Rowland released her hand and settled back in his chair. He was silent for a moment, and the only sound was a clock ticking on the mantel and the fire in the hearth that popped and hissed as a coal dropped beneath the grate. He had seen the evasion in her eyes but could not guess at the meaning of it. There had been a rift; that he knew, since his aunt had spoken of it during his last visit
. He was about to speak, but Lady Bournaud put up her hand.

  “I wanted to see you again. Likely the last time before I die.”

  “So you made up some absurd story?”

  “Not exactly. Delia and I did have a tiff. Idiotic thing over who wrote last. But we made it up.”

  Rowland sensed evasion again, and yet he did not have the heart to pin the old girl down too closely. “You didn’t need such a scheme to get me here, you know. If you asked me, I would have come.”

  The comtesse peered at him earnestly. “I suppose you would have. I’m glad you’re here. You will stay, won’t you?”

  Rowland glanced out the window. “It seems we are all bound here, whether we like it or not,” he said, getting up and wandering over, gazing down at the drifts that had piled up overnight against the hedges and trees. The snow glittered in the brilliant sun, an almost blinding reflection, but as his eyes adjusted he saw two figures walk the path that the gardener had shoveled from the front door around to the expanse of the west lawn. He frowned down, his attention riveted. One of the figures was slight and clearly female, dressed in a pale pink spencer and bonnet adorned with feathers that drooped and bobbed. The other was a man in a dark greatcoat and a curl-rimmed beaver.

  It took only a moment to determine that it was Lady Silvia and Lord Vaughan. Rowland unwillingly acknowledged a pang in his heart and a surge of unwelcome jealousy. He fought it. It was unworthy. He had no reason to dislike Vaughan. It was un-Christian and unmanly to dislike the baron simply because he was handsome, wealthy, titled and charming—in short, everything Mark Rowland, vicar, was not.

  But that dislike was there, in his heart. And it was there, he knew, because of the budding affection he was experiencing for Lady Silvia Hampton, a lady who was as far above him as the north star was the earth. He had looked into her pansy-brown eyes, as soft as velvet, as beckoning as sunlight, and he had felt himself cut adrift from every other person in the room.