A Matchmaker's Christmas Page 5

“Snow?” Mrs. Fellows cried out in alarm. She pushed away from the table and waddled to the window, where, indeed, white flakes pelted the glass against the gloom of twilight. “Oh, we must go. We must. Mr. Fellows, gather yourself; we must leave at once!”

  Beatrice concealed a smile and moved away from the table herself, knowing the guests would be leaving. The squire’s wife was from the south, and even though she had been married for almost forty years and living in Yorkshire for all that time, she could not be sanguine about a northern snowstorm. By the time the squire had called for his carriage and the servants had retrieved all of their layers of clothing, the snow had thickened, and as Beatrice saw them to the door, it was gathering and swirling into drifts.

  Dinner was done, so the company gathered in the crimson saloon, where Lady Bournaud was already bundled warmly by the blazing hearth, seated in her Bath chair in the choice spot. Sir David went to her immediately and asked after her health.

  “I am as well as any old woman can hope to be. I ache, I forget things, I cannot move freely on my own, and I find dependence intolerable. That is how I am. Now, are you not sorry you asked?” She fixed on him her basilisk glare.

  “Not yet,” he said mildly. “I think I would need to be told to go to the devil before I would be sorry I asked.”

  She chuckled and reached out one knobby hand to pat his cheek, as if he were still the ten-year-old boy she remembered so well. Beatrice’s eyes misted, thinking she had not seen her employer so joyful for a year or more. For that reason alone she had to be happy that Sir David had accepted the invitation, even though it was causing her some personal discomfort.

  The room was warm and Rowland, with the help of the footmen, directed the arc of chairs so all of the ladies could be comfortable, including herself. He really was a charming gentleman when he lost the seriousness he tended toward. And yet that solemnity of character was not grim in any way; it was just a habitual studiousness that was not unpleasing.

  Though from Verity Allen’s aspect, as vigorous and energetic as she was, it might look rather dour and staid. Beatrice sat back in the comfortable chair Rowland had pulled forward for her on the other side of her employer, and watched the company. Sir David stayed by Lady Bournaud’s left side, holding her hand in his. Mr. Rowland, seated between Lady Silvia and Miss Allen, was clearly hard-pressed to keep his gaze from wandering to Lady Silvia’s radiant visage. He seemed entranced, and yet Beatrice caught him a time or two searching the young lady’s expression with an earnest eye. In Beatrice’s estimation Lady Silvia was as lively as Verity Allen, but seemed almost prim by comparison, for the girl from the colonies was very free-speaking.

  The window rattled and everyone jumped except Lady Bournaud, who chuckled. “A good blow tonight,” she said. “’Tis early in the season for this, I suppose, but we do get these storms rattling down into the valley. By morning you will not even be able to see the village from here, everything will be buried so deep.”

  “How exciting,” Verity said, clasping her hands together and trapping them between her knees. “I am glad my baggage came, for we might be snowed under until spring!”

  Rowland chuckled indulgently. “Highly unlikely, Miss Allen. There is always a thaw. There is no place in the world where one would be trapped for an entire season.”

  “That’s how little you know,” she retorted. “Where I live, if we get an early snow we can be submerged for months! One year, when I was eleven, we did not see the ground again until April, and by then we were surviving on dried venison and wormy flour.”

  Lady Silvia shivered, her eyes wide with wonder. “How could you bear it? What did you do all winter?”

  “It was marvelous,” Verity said, leaning forward, her eyes sparkling. “We would go tobogganing down the long hill behind the cabin, right across the river and halfway up the other side!”

  “Tobogganing?” Lady Silvia said, enunciating each syllable carefully. “What is that?”

  “It’s a sled, only it doesn’t have runners; it is just made out of barrel staves lashed together, you see, or nailed together with a cross board. And you slide down the hill on it, going so fast, and with the branches whipping through your hair and tearing at your bonnet . . . it is smashing!”

  “Quite literally, if you did not avoid the trees, I should think,” Lady Bournaud said dryly, examining the young woman who spoke. “How did you avoid instant death?”

  “You steer, using a rope. But I will say if you were not careful, you could end up in the most awful pickle. One boy I knew went down recklessly and got a branch stuck in his eye.”

  Lady Silvia cried out and covered her face. “How horrible,” she said, a sob in her voice. “Oh, how very awful.”

  “He recovered,” Verity said nonchalantly. “He was blinded, but only in one eye.”

  “Miss Allen, think of the company before you blurt out the first thing that comes to your head!” Rowland cast a quick glance at Lady Silvia, who still shivered in revulsion.

  Beatrice, watching the look of horror and repulsion on Rowland’s face as he gazed at Miss Allen while he patted Lady Silvia’s shoulder, wondered how Lady Bournaud possibly thought there could be a match between Rowland and the young woman from the colonies. Their bickering so far had seemed more on the footing of brother and sister than lovers. “How long did you live in Upper Canada?” she asked Miss Allen, to divert the subject away from the gruesome.

  “Oh, I still live in Canada.” Seeing the company’s blank stares, Verity added, “I mean, I shall be going back there as soon as Mama realizes I will have no better luck catching a husband here than I did at home.”

  Sir David laughed out loud at that ingenuous confession.

  The girl stared at him in surprise. “Did I say something funny, Sir David?”

  “No, my dear child, you said something refreshingly honest.” The knight wiped tears of laughter from his eyes.

  Beatrice was spellbound, not having ever seen Chappell laugh before, and thinking what a rich, handsome sound it was.

  “I fail to see what is refreshing about a girl admitting she cannot wed.” Lady Bournaud’s expression was set in a disapproving frown.

  “Oh, come now,” Sir David said, recapturing the old lady’s hand. “I think in Miss Allen’s case it is not so much a case of being unable to wed, but perhaps unwilling?” He cast a smiling glance at the young lady in question, and then continued. “And if memory serves, I believe you told me a tale or two about your own adventures, and how you managed to remain unwed to the advanced age you were when you met the elegant and handsome Comte Bournaud and tumbled into love at first sight.”

  She swatted at him, but it was not an ill-natured cuff. “Do not think you are too old for discipline,” she said, but chuckled.

  Rowland was smiling, not even noticing Lady Silvia’s rapt gaze for once. “To return to the former conversation, I was just remembering that my sisters and I spent many a winter day sliding down the hill behind our home.”

  “Really?” Verity Allen said, in such a tone of disbelief that it started the whole company laughing.

  Just then, from the doorway, Tidwell cleared his throat.

  Lady Bournaud looked up toward her aged retainer. “Yes? What is it, Tidwell? You are sounding particularly phlegmy.”

  He bowed and said, “My lady, there is a gentleman here.”

  “What on earth do you mean?”

  “There is a gentleman. I have let him in. Should I show him to the fire, my lady?”

  “A gentleman?”

  “A gentleman.” His tone was firm, and a look passed between him and his employer.

  Voices, all at once, chorused in quick succession, “Do show him in.” “Yes, let him in!” “He must be frozen; bid him enter.”

  Lady Bournaud’s voice carried over all. “Yes, Tidwell, show the poor chappie in.”

  Then, from behind Tidwell, came a dripping snowman.

  Chapter Six

  He moved forward stiffly, clumps of
snow sliding off his shoulders with each movement. He was, it appeared, a youngish man, Beatrice thought, though it was hard to tell, for he was swathed in a greatcoat and muffler, and those were liberally coated with snow.

  She was the first to react, and moved quickly toward him. “Sir, please come to the fire. You must be frozen!” She took his arm and led him toward the blazing hearth.

  With her words the spell was broken, and everyone moved to help. Chappell was among the first, helping him off with his greatcoat and handing it to a waiting footman.

  “Gracious, Tidwell,” Lady Bournaud said, twisting in her seat to glare at her butler. “Why did you not do all of this before?”

  The butler, standing behind the comtesse, cleared his throat and said, “He would not allow it, my lady, until he had personally asked the lady of the house her indulgence, since he will, perforce, be required to spend the night.”

  “What kind of looby are you, then?” Lady Bournaud said to the young man as he became unwrapped before the company’s eyes.

  “The frozen kind,” he said, his words stiffly uttered.

  “What’s your name?” she demanded.

  He bowed with difficulty, his breeches dripping ice and water as the fire warmed him. “I am Jacob Vaughan . . . Baron Vaughan, if that matters. Where am I, by the way?” He shivered and sniffed.

  Beatrice said, “This is the home of Comtesse Bournaud. I am her companion, Miss Copland.” She examined the newcomer; he appeared to be in his early thirties, a well-set-up young man, with light brown hair and vivid blue eyes. He was not too tall, not, for instance, as tall as Mr. Rowland, and not broad of shoulder, but he carried with him an indefinable air of vigor, even in his pitiable frozen state. She gestured to the rest of the gathered company, who examined him with interested eyes. “This is Lady Silvia Hampton, Sir David Chappell, Mr. Mark Rowland—the Reverend Mr. Rowland—and Miss Verity Allen, from Upper Canada.”

  He nodded to the company, and turned his attention to Lady Bournaud. “My lady, I must beg your indulgence, it appears, for a night’s lodging. I am on my way home—home being Wiltshire—from Scotland, and clearly cannot continue to the village as I intended.” He sneezed.

  Beatrice motioned to the footman. “Charles, bring Lord Vaughan a tisane . . . Cook will know which one. And a blanket.”

  Chappell watched the companion fussing over the younger man and felt stir within him a warmth. He had seen her solicitude over Lady Bournaud but now saw that it was a habitual attention to the needs of others. It was ingrained in her, it seemed, a sweetness of disposition and a concern for others that sprung from deep inside of her. “I think what the chap needs,” he said quietly, “is a change of clothes.”

  “It is true, but has he any with him?”

  Chappell turned to the other man. “Do you have your luggage, Lord Vaughan?”

  “No. M’traps are ahead.” He sniffed. “I hate carriages. Prefer riding, you know, and so I took a side trip to see a particular stream someone pointed out to me as a good fishing spot, and then got caught in this hideous storm.”

  “Do you mean you slogged through this . . . this blizzard on horseback?” Miss Allen said, waving her hand at the window, which still showed, through the half-open curtains, the snow rattling against it. She half rose from her chair, a look of alarm on her pretty face.

  Vaughan looked at his interrogator and frowned. “Yes. Why not? Wasn’t like this when I started out.”

  “But your poor horse! Is it safe? Is it comfortable? Has it been bedded down properly? You know, warm mash will help the poor thing recover nicely, and if I were you I would brush it down immediately and cover it in a dry, warm blanket, and then—”

  “Thank you very much,” Lord Vaughan croaked. “So nice to know young ladies are still so caring. I sit here frozen, and you are only worried over Bolt’s welfare!”

  She glared at him. “You have all these people fussing over you. And a roaring fire, and blankets, and . . . and all this.” She waved her hand. “But your horse may not. In Canada the horse would be taken care of first, for people can be more easily replaced.”

  Chappell, stifling a chuckle, said, “Children, enough. Miss Allen, there are no better stable hands than those in Lady Bournaud’s employ. I think you can rest assured that his mount will be well cared for.” He glanced around at the company, and then at Lady Bournaud. “What I was just saying to Miss Copland is that Lord Vaughan must change out of his wet things. If he does not have clothing, I think I can manage to lend him some, as we appear to be about the same size.”

  “I would be forever in your debt, sir,” Vaughan said.

  “Do that then, Davey,” Lady Bournaud said.

  Vaughan stood and bowed to the company, but his glance caught and stopped on Lady Silvia, who had been silent in all the to-do. His gaze was riveted. She did not meet his bold look, but rather stared, blushing, into the fire. It was clear to all that she knew of his close scrutiny. The reverend caught the direction of the baron’s gaze and followed it to the young lady at his side.

  Chappell noticed the brief interchange. He had noted earlier the way Rowland seemed protective of Lady Silvia, and had thought there was a romance in the air, but the sudden tension did not bode well, he thought. And once again he was thankful to no longer be so young. “Come, Vaughan, let’s get you into something dry,” he said, taking the other man’s arm and guiding him away from the company.

  Upstairs, Chappell summoned his valet, Drucker, and told him what he wanted. While Vaughan dressed, they talked. Or rather Lord Vaughan talked.

  “Who is that lovely young lady?”

  “Which one?” Chappell asked. “Miss Allen or Lady Silvia?”

  “Is Lady Silvia the one with the enchanting brown eyes?” Vaughan allowed Drucker to straighten his jacket and tie his cravat. The valet had been drying and polishing Vaughan’s boots in the meantime, and they stood ready for the gentleman.

  “Yes. She is the daughter of the Earl of Crofton.” Chappell, seated in a chair by the window, watched the calculation in the younger man’s eyes.

  “Not married, I take it. Nor betrothed?”

  “No, from what I understand. However, I cannot attest to whether her heart is engaged or not.” The last was said with a wry tone, but the baron was oblivious.

  “That doesn’t matter. Women’s hearts are soon turned.” Vaughan glanced at himself in the mirror. “Can’t thank you enough for the loan, Chappell, though these are not my sort of clothes.” He hummed a snatch of tune and turned away from the cheval glass. “Shall we go back downstairs? Rejoin the company?” He rubbed his hands together.

  How quickly the young recovered, Chappell thought. “Certainly. So, you are on your way home from Scotland.”

  “Yes.” Vaughan grimaced. “I’ve got to get married, and a friend told me to come up and have a look at his sister. Gruesome.”

  Chappell, rising, stopped and stared at the other man. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, ’twasn’t so much that she was a quiz, though she was—not a patch on that lovely little dove downstairs, I can tell you—but she was a managing, shrewish wench, for all she tried to pretend to pretty manners. Too coy, too cloying.” He gave a mock shudder. “Gruesome.”

  “I meant to say, you have to get married? What do you mean by that?”

  He shrugged. “Don’t have to. Free man and all that. But I’ve been a bit of a wastrel until now, y’know, and m’father says it’s either marriage or he’ll ship me off to the colonies.” Shamefaced, he added, “We have interests in Canada, y’see, and he says I either marry and settle down to the business of gettin’ an heir or I go to Canada. Can’t see m’self in Canada.”

  The two men exited the room and started down the long winding staircase, lit dimly by the candles flickering in polished brass sconces.

  “So I mean to find myself a cuddlesome bundle and get married. Shouldn’t be so bad. At least a man can get married and still have his sport on the side.”

/>   Chappell put his hand on the other man’s arm and was about to say something, but stopped. It was none of his business. He might find the young man’s philosophy repugnant, but it was nothing but what he had been taught from the cradle. It was not his place to challenge or try to change the young man’s ideas.

  Vaughan paused and looked questioningly into Chappell’s eyes, but then continued rambling on as they descended. “Just want a sweet-faced widgeon to keep the home fires burning, y’know. Children should be entertaining. And it’s time I did it, stepped into tandem yoke. Assumed the harness. Got nabbed by parson’s mousetrap. Hey,” he said, suddenly struck by an idea. Chappell looked back up at him. “Parson’s mousetrap!” Vaughan said, eyes widened. “Fellow there, he was introduced as a reverend. If Lady Silvia was willing and Lady Bournaud let me stay a while, she and I could be married during Christmas. Wouldn’t that be a lark! Go to my parents’ already wed!”

  Chappell just could not hold his tongue in the face of such nonsense. His own matrimonial experience had shown him the error of hasty choosing. “Lord Vaughan,” he blurted out, stopping dead, “I think you should . . .” He paused, hammered his fist on the twisted oak railing, but then started again, his voice calmer. “From experience I say you should take more time in your choice of a life partner.” Chappell looked down toward the saloon, where he could hear the voices of the company through the open double doors. “Marriage will affect your life far more than you think, and you should make your choice wisely.”

  “It’s all chance anyway,” Vaughan said cynically, stepping down to the same step as his companion. “Love don’t tell you a thing. Had friends who married their heart’s desire, only to be bickering like fishwives inside of a year.”

  Disturbed, Chappell said, as they descended the last steps together, “Nonetheless, I would go slowly if I were you. It is the choice of a lifetime you are speaking of. At least take as much time choosing a wife as you would a good horse.” The last was said with irony, but Vaughan’s answer left him in great doubt as to whether the other man had gotten the message.