A Matchmaker's Christmas

by Donna Lea Simpson

“Done,” Verity said, sticking out her hand. She looked at it, then wiped it on her dress and stuck it out again.

  Silvia, stifling a smile, took it in her gloved left hand and shook. “Verity, will you come to my room? My abigail has been wanting to show me a hairstyle she wishes to try on me, but I have not been sure of it. If she could try it on your hair first I could see what it looks like.”

  Such an utterly absurd fabrication deserved to be laughed at, but Verity, an open expression on her guileless face, said, “All right. Sure.”

  Seeing a solution to at least one of her problems ahead, Silvia sighed with satisfaction. “Good. Come up when you are done here.”

  • • •

  Gazing at herself in the mirror, Verity shook her head. “Doesn’t look like me.” Of course, since there was no one to hear her, there was no answer. How she had allowed herself to be primped and prodded into this absurd imitation of a London belle, she did not know, but now she was committed to it, for Silvia had insisted she come down to dinner this way.

  There was a rap on the door. “Are you ready?”

  It was Silvia’s girlish voice. With a deep sigh, Verity said, “I guess I am as ready as I ever will be.”

  Together, arm in arm, they descended as the dining room doors were opened for the company. Sir David Chappell was the first of the guests they met, and though his eyes widened, he was too much the gentleman to comment on Verity’s changed attire and hairstyle. He bowed and greeted them formally.

  Precedence was not observed, as the gathering was being conducted more along the lines of a family party, so Silvia and Verity were still arm in arm as Vaughan strode in from the library. He stopped. “What happened to you?” he said, gaping at Verity.

  She stiffened, feeling dreadful embarrassment steal over her. This was what she had been afraid of, that he would think she was doing this for him.

  “Does she not look beautiful, Lord Vaughan?” Silvia squeezed Verity’s arm in silent encouragement.

  And that was when Verity first understood that it was all meant for this moment, that the hairstyle story was just a ruse to gently cajole her into more ladylike attire and primping. She swallowed, praying the same idea would not occur to Vaughan. She could not stand it if he laughed at her. It would be more than she could bear. It had been like heaven the night before when he had sat down beside her just as if he wanted to, and had patted her hair and touched her face. But soon she had realized that the caresses were much as one would give to a puppy.

  “She looks . . . different,” he said, staring at her, his slow gaze traveling over her and taking in the change to her hair and her clothing.

  The rush of other guests to the table finished the subject, and Verity sank into her chair between Sir David and Mrs. Stoure. She would have sat beside Silvia, but the girl had been claimed immediately by Vaughan, and she had somehow maneuvered Mr. Rowland on her right.

  Dinner rushed by in a blur. Sir David was kind, helping her to choice bits of fish and game, noticing when she did not eat much. Normally her appetite was good, but tonight, for some reason, she felt queasy. Lady Silvia, in her kindness, had noticed her feelings toward Lord Vaughan and had been trying to force him to notice her. But nothing would make that happen. On some elemental level he was attracted to her; she had felt it when she was pressed to him in the stable, and when she fell on him from the tree. It had given her the courage for that ridiculous kiss.

  But men would always be men. The genteel, delicate, pretty Lady Silvia would always be the one they preferred. And who would not? Verity cast a glance across the table. Lady Silvia was perfect, even when flustered by the overeager attention of Lord Vaughan. Her cheeks were pink and her eyes wide, but her manners were . . . perfect.

  Dinner progressed, and then they joined Lady Bournaud in the red saloon, as was the custom. It was the last night before Christmas Eve, and a table was set up in one corner, for the task before the young people was to make up the baskets for the staff. Normally Beatrice would do it all herself, but this year, with the added burden of company and her dual duties as de facto hostess and housekeeper, she was just too busy and had asked the two younger ladies that afternoon if they would mind lending a hand.

  The table, a large round mahogany table at one end of the saloon, was heaped high with good things and gifts. Silvia, in her pretty way, asked Lord Vaughan and Mr. Rowland to help, and both being gentleman, agreed.

  “Though I do not know how much help I shall be,” Mr. Rowland said, his expression bemused. “I have ever been clumsy with duties of this nature.”

  “Oh, but in your role as parish reverend you may be asked to help at the village fair, or the harvest bazaar,” Lady Silvia said, looking at him sideways from under her lashes.

  Vaughan sat down with a grunt of disapproval. “I shall not be a damn bit of help,” he said.

  Lady Silvia turned to him, wide-eyed. “Oh, come now, Lord Vaughan. Do you not tie your own flies for fishing? Making bows for the baskets is simpler, truly.”

  Verity could not but admire her new friend’s adroit handling of every objection. Her own upbringing had been devoid of the lessons she supposed would have taught her such finesse. Her mother, overwhelmed with the task of merely surviving the wilderness at first, had been wholly consumed with practical issues, cooking and laundry and gathering food, gardening. Those things Verity could do. She knew how to cook an entire meal over an open fire, and could gut and clean a deer. She knew how to tan hides, gather wild rice from the lake nearby, and . . .

  Without thought she began to talk out loud as she picked up a length of ribbon to tie into a bow onto the handle of a basket. “At Christmas, at home, we would spend the week before making apple pies, bread and ginger biscuits, and my father made gifts for us all out of wood and deerskin. An Indian woman from their village taught Mama how to make moccasins . . . that is slippers from hide decorated with beads.”

  Vaughan said, “Is that the odd beaded footwear you had on the other night?”

  “Yes.” Verity looked up from the basket she was filling and smiled. “I brought some pairs with me when I came over—thought my English cousins would want to see what life in Canada was like—but no one was interested.” Her smiled faded and she did not go on. It was the one thing that had bothered her most about this land she was born in. Not a soul was truly interested in any part of her past, and the life she loved so much and had been forced to leave behind, though some of the London gentlemen had pretended interest until they found out there was no colonial fortune in her family.

  “I would like to see them,” Silvia said.

  “I would as well, Miss Allen,” Rowland said.

  Verity frowned and squinted. Were they merely being kind to the colonial clod or did they really want to see them? She found that she had become preternaturally sensitive about condescension and being humored, but her hypersensitivity did not sense any hypocrisy from Rowland or Silvia.

  “All right. I brought some other things, too.”

  Silvia smiled and touched her arm. “We would be fascinated,” she said, gathering Rowland into her gaze and then turning it back to her new friend. “I have never been anywhere but London and Bath, and now Yorkshire. I would like to hear about your home. It will make me feel almost as if I have been there.”

  Verity blinked back the water that rose in her eyes. Never a weepy female, she was shocked at her own susceptibility, but she had missed being part of a family circle, as she was at home among her brothers, in the long months since she had landed in England. This felt almost like home.

  She stole a glance at Vaughan. He looked frankly bored, gazing at the ceiling and abandoning any pretense of making the baskets for the servants. Well, too bad, she thought, standing. She didn’t suppose she would ever figure him out, and so she would just leave him to sulk in silence. “I’ll go and get them,” she said, looking back to Silvia and Rowland.

  • • •

  Sourly, Vaughan watched Lady Silvia, how she con
stantly cut glances at the reverend and deferred to him, as they sat around the table making baskets up for the staff. Baskets! This was women’s work, and he had done precious little but muck up one bow after another. Making the kissing balls was one thing—after all, what gentleman had not been recruited at some point by a hopeful lady into making kissing balls? But baskets of fripperies for the servants? And now, as they worked, Verity Allen was giving a lecture, almost, on life in the colonies.

  The young woman ignored him completely, taking from a cloth bag several pairs of the “moccasins,” as she called them. Like carpet slippers, he thought, unconscious of how he was moving forward, more interested than he would have thought possible. He picked one up and fingered the leather. It was soft, softer than cowhide, certainly.

  “It is doeskin,” Verity said in answer to his unvoiced question. “When the men have completed the hunt, the skin is stripped, the animal is gutted, and the meat is cut into strips and dried over a fire to smoke it.”

  Lady Silvia wrinkled her nose. “Dried over smoke?”

  “Preserves it,” Vaughan said absently. “So it can be eaten later. I say, what about these hides?” He noted the beadwork on the toe of one pair, very fine, all in brilliant reds and yellows and black in a stylized bird shape with wings outstretched.

  “They are scraped; it leaves them very soft and pliable, fit for making these moccasins. The Indians use everything. The sinew of the deer is used to lash things together. Gut makes bowstrings and thread, bone makes needles and scrapers, antlers and horn make beads. Nothing goes to waste.”

  Lady Silvia, her eyes sparkling, asked, “Did you really know Indians?”

  Verity nodded. “Good friends with some of them, women and men. Women are important; do most of the work for the tribe. Without the natives we would never have learned what natural foods can be eaten, like what we call wild rice, even though it isn’t rice at all. And how to build a canoe.” Her voice rose with enthusiasm, her hands moving as she described life in Upper Canada. “It is the best vehicle for travel because it is light and can be carried past rapids. I learned how to paddle before I was six. Not like a rowboat, you see; it takes balance and ability.”

  Vaughan gazed down at the moccasin in his hand and gave in. He was fascinated and had to confess he had questions only Verity Allen could answer. He hated to admit it, but there it was. “Miss Allen,” he said, clearing his throat. “I cannot quite picture this ‘canoe.’ Would you describe it?”

  “Yes, do,” Lady Silvia said, a tiny smile on her bow lips.

  “Well,” Verity said, sitting down and drawing a piece of paper toward her. “Where a rowboat is short and broad, a canoe is long and slim, so it cuts through the water . . .”

  • • •

  The evening ended late, around the piano. Mrs. Stoure was a natural musician, not needing any sheet music at all to play the old favorites and Christmas songs by the dozen. As Lady Bournaud drowsily smiled on, everyone gathered, after drinking mulled wine and eating ginger cake, and sang.

  Sir David had a very fine baritone, Beatrice remembered from a past Christmas so long ago now. As he began to sing, alone, “What Child Is This?” Beatrice surprised herself by moving closer and joining, her own soprano voice adding a counterpoint. His light blue eyes warmed and a smile drew up the corners of his mouth, even as she continued to sing. His arm stole around her shoulders, as if to draw her closer so they could blend more harmoniously, and the touch of his warm hand sent a chill down her back. She would have this to remember when he was gone, this night, as the wind howled outside and the warmth of good food and good fellowship set her heart aglow.

  It was a moment in time to treasure, she thought, as she glanced around the parlor. The crimson saloon, so called because of the deep red walls and furnishings, glowed warm in the golden candlelight. Smiles wreathed every face, and as voices rose to join them in the song, it filled the high-ceilinged chamber with joy.

  The song over, she started to draw away, but he said, “Stay, Miss Copland. We may need to harmonize again, one never knows.”

  She stayed in the protection of his arm and had never felt so happy, nor so blessed.

  Silvia and Verity sang a song together, and then the gathered company sang one all together. Beatrice noted how Silvia, emboldened by the wine she had imbibed, perhaps, moved closer to Rowland. His expression was tender, and he held her arm close to him, even threading his fingers through hers. She gazed up at him, her eyes shining with adoration.

  Verity had likewise gravitated to Vaughan’s side. He had slung a careless arm over her shoulders as they stood close to the piano to sing. But as the glow of candlelight burnished her high cheeks to pink, his gaze sharpened and settled on her lips.

  “We are under the kissing ball,” he said as the last song finished. He leaned down and kissed her lips, his expression, when he looked back up, bemused. Verity had her eyes closed, and only opened them slowly.

  “Yes, well,” he said briskly, releasing Verity abruptly. “Time for all the ladies to take the same punishment, I say.” He kissed Beatrice’s cheek, then his gaze settled on Lady Silvia, and flicked down to where the reverend and her hands were clasped. Rowland let go of her and cleared his throat. Vaughan stepped forward and took the girl’s shoulders in his hands, and pulled her close, setting his lips directly on hers with a forceful movement.

  There was a hiss of withdrawn breath from somewhere. Beatrice rather thought it was from Verity.

  “I think there has been enough reveling for one night,” Lady Bournaud said sharply. As everyone had thought her asleep in her Bath chair, most were somewhat startled. But she was awake, eyes glittering in the candlelight shed by the candelabra that sat on the piano.

  Silvia had pulled away from Vaughan and scrubbed her lips with what could only be named insulting vigor.

  Lady Bournaud had not missed the exchanges of looks, Beatrice did not think. She gazed steadily at Verity and beckoned her closer. “Your mother was wrong about you, my child,” she said. “Fanny says you are wild and have no accomplishments, but I think she just misunderstood you. I was listening to your fascinating stories about your challenging country. You are a new breed, my dear, a Canadian.” She held out her hand.

  “Thank you, my lady,” Verity whispered, her voice thick with unshed tears as she took the old woman’s hand in hers.

  “And now it is time to retire,” Lady Bournaud said sternly, releasing the girl and glancing around at the company. “Tomorrow is a long day, so off to bed with you all.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Clouds lay thickly on the horizon above Harn Moor, gathering like gloomy messengers of trouble to come, and yet there was a brilliant belt of blue above them. Verity frowned up at the sky. At home she would know just how to interpret the sky, whether snow was coming or if the good weather would hold a while yet. She strode into the stable. A ride would not hurt, for no weather could come upon her fast enough, in such open country, that she would not have time to start back.

  “Bobby, I will ride . . .” She looked around the gloomy stable and finally saw Vaughan’s big stallion snorting and puffing, anxious for exercise and not likely to see any that day. “Him,” she said, pointing to his stall.

  “Ah, no yer don’t,” Bobby, the wiry thirteen-year-old stable hand, said. “’Is lordship would ’ave me knickers if I was to let yer ’ave yer way wiv Bolt. “’E comes ’round ev’ry evenin’ to check on ’im.”

  “But Bolt and I are old friends, are we not?” Verity said, opening the stall door and allowing the stallion to whicker gently in her ear and search her hands for sugar.

  Bobby, wide-eyed, said, “’E does like you, don’t ’e? Never seem ’im act like that fer anyone, not even ’is lordship. An’ I hates like hell to take ’im into the pen, he sets up such a almighty fuss, ’e do. Bolt, not his lordship, I mean.”

  “Which is why,” Verity said, deciding in a rush to take the responsibility away from the boy, “Lord Vaughan asked me e
specially to exercise the lad. How is that?” She led him from the stall.

  “Zat true?”

  “It is completely true,” Verity said, one hand behind her back and her fingers crossed against the bouncer she had just told. She would be back before anyone knew she had even taken Bolt out. If there was one thing in the world she could depend on, it was her horsemanship. Not that she had ever ridden such a prime bit of blood and bone, but a nag was a nag. She reached up and rubbed the horse’s velvety nose. This was a morning when she needed a proper ride to rid her of the pain of the night before. Everything had seemed to go so well, and then . . .

  She turned her mind away from it. Forget about the knavish varlet! Lord Jacob Vaughan was not worth the time and energy it took to think of him. “I am riding Bolt,” she repeated, glaring at the stable hand.

  Bobby shrugged. “Then on yer ’ead be it,” he said.

  So, he was only half fooled, Verity thought, grabbing a worn groom’s saddle. He had turned his back and was whistling unconcernedly while she saddled Bolt and led him to the mounting block. The stallion acted up some as she mounted, sidling and tossing his head.

  “Settle down!” she commanded, and he instantly obeyed. “Do not try to play off your pretty tricks on me, sir,” she said, patting his neck. “Now we understand who is master,” she finished, with some satisfaction. He would act out no more of his dramas. High-strung as he was, she had an understanding of him; they respected each other.

  Bobby came forward as she exited, and she waved as she trotted past. He was hollering something after her, something about snow, but she could not hear him. Whatever it was could wait. She cantered out into the uneven sunlight to find Silvia strolling along the path above, on the terrace. She slowed her mount.

  “Verity,” Silvia called, waving one pink-gloved hand. “Where are you going? It is Christmas Eve!”

  “Just going for a ride,” Verity called, restraining Bolt, who was impatient as she tried to keep him still. “He is too fresh. I have to run him.”