Page 19 of A Meddlesome Match (The Vaughns #3)

“It is about taking little steps, Mr. Reed. Begin by pretending those laborers are your pupils, and embrace that strength you already possess. With practice and time, it will grow easier, and you will find yourself being bolder more often and without having to trick yourself into it.”

With his thoughts on the feel of her hand in his, it took a heartbeat before his wits caught her meaning, and he nodded.

Miss Vaughn drew in a deep breath and straightened, her gaze fixing on his. “And with that in mind, I must admit that I didn’t give you a complete answer before, as it was too mortifying to admit the whole truth.”

She paused, her body tensing as though preparing for some grand feat of strength.

“It isn’t the dancing itself that I enjoy so much, Mr. Reed. I like it well enough, I suppose, but what I love is being chosen. Standing up with a gentleman is quantifiable evidence that someone enjoys my company. That they prefer me.”

Wincing, the lady shook her head and turned to her work. “It is pitiable, I know, but it is true. And mothers fobbing me off on their sons was the opposite of what I had hoped to experience at the Overtons’ ball. That ruined the dancing, not your skills.”

With her eyes now on her work, Miss Vaughn couldn’t see the wide-eyed manner in which Walter stared at her. Which he couldn’t say was a good or a bad thing. She thought his mother was forcing him to stand up with her? A slew of words choked his thoughts with all the many assurances he wished to give her, but not a single one of them would do so without making his feelings clear.

For all that he wished to adopt Miss Vaughn’s practical advice for a bolder Walter Reed, she had advised small changes, and declaring his undying love for a lady who had disliked him only a few weeks ago couldn’t be counted in any way “small.”

Mother was taking pity on me, not fobbing you off. Would that work? It might lead to further discussions, but it seemed innocuous enough that Miss Vaughn wouldn’t automatically connect it with his romantic intentions. Yet even that little statement made his tongue tie itself in knots. Drawing on the strength she had helped him discover within himself, Walter thought through the sentence, practicing it a quick time or two before he was certain he could speak—

“I think you ought to be more creative in your search for schoolmasters,”

she said, causing Walter’s mouth to snap shut. Miss Vaughn glanced at him from over her shoulder as she applied another coat of paint.

“Pardon?”

he asked, and when Miss Vaughn motioned for him to continue his work, he picked up his hammer once more whilst the assurance he yearned to give lingered in the back of his mind. There never had been, nor could there ever be, any fobbing where she was concerned.

“You might consider tutors who have just completed their education or are nearing retirement,”

she said, her paintbrush sweeping across the wood. “I’ve heard men in both groups bemoan the difficulty of finding employment. The former may lack the expertise you desire, but better to have staff of good character and strong work ethic, for experience is the only thing you can give him. As for the older schoolmasters, they may not remain long in your employ, but they would grant you time to build your school’s reputation. Then the next search may be easier.”

“True,”

said Walter, his brow furrowing as he considered how to steer the conversation back. Yet the idea Miss Vaughn posed was an interesting one.

“And…”

she began, brightening as she paused her work to face him. “What about speaking to employment agencies? I know that most revolve around servants, but surely there must be some in London that specialize in tutors.”

“I have, but the responses weren’t encouraging.”

“Once when I was visiting my aunt in London, her housekeeper was filling positions, and I heard the two of them discussing the process and their efforts with their servants’ registry. My aunt doesn’t require references—”

“Pardon?”

Walter nearly dropped the board, but before he could let out more than that shocked utterance, Miss Vaughn hurried to answer.

“Far too many employers are petty and withhold references on a whim, and simply having one isn’t a guarantee of good work as they are more a reflection of how well the servant bent to their master’s will—”

“Which isn’t necessarily a sign of skill or character,”

he concluded.

“So why place such emphasis on them?”

she asked. “If I were you, I would trust the opinions of those running the agency as they are bound to have a better sense of the person whom they are recommending and have more to lose should they suggest someone of poor character.”

Walter considered that. “True.”

“Besides,”

she added, “men trapped in such wretched circumstances are unlikely to quibble about whether the school is new or old, in Yorkshire or on the Continent. They are as desperate to have a position as you are to fill it.”

Hands on his hips, he studied the lady as she went about her work. “That is brilliant.”

Miss Vaughn continued her work, adding, “I am glad to be of service, Mr. Reed. As I said, I have every confidence that you will make this a success.”

Assurances rose to his mind once more; the words he had wanted to tell her now slipped back into place as the conversation lulled. Walter considered how to go about returning to the subject of “fobbing,”

but he couldn’t think of any easy way to manufacture a more natural approach to the topic.

Pretend she is one of your pupils.

Though the advice was sound, it was impossible to maintain the pretense when everything about Miss Vaughn shattered the illusion. Even now, a flash of sunlight caught her hair, drawing out a golden hue that lightened the color until it was nearly blonde, while a flush of pink colored her pale cheek—both of which stirred feelings that were anything but professorial.

Be bold! For once, that inner voice prodded him forward, reminding him of the strength Miss Vaughn had demonstrated during her earlier confession. Surely he could meet that with one of his own.

“Miss Vaughn,”

he began, drawing her gaze to him. “I—”

“Hello, there!”

called a voice in the distance, drawing their attention to Mrs. Gibson, who was waving in a manner both demure and frantic as she scampered down the drive, her handkerchief flapping wildly in the breeze. Lungs heaving, she fanned her flushed face as she arrived before them. “Good gracious. I ought not to run like that.

Coming to the lady’s side, Miss Vaughn’s eyes widened. “Heavens, what is the matter?”

“I glimpsed you from the parlor window and thought it best to come and see what was afoot,”

said Mrs. Gibson with a brittle smile.

“We are working on the stalls and arch for the flower show—as we discussed,”

she replied with a furrowed brow.

“Yes, of course. I was simply surprised to see Mr. Reed here instead of Howard. Where is that silly boy of mine? And why has this gentleman been conscripted into service?”

asked Mrs. Gibson, flicking her handkerchief down the length of him, and Walter fought the urge to roll down his sleeves. With his tailcoat abandoned, such a show of modesty would do little good.

“All I know is that your son wasn’t here when we agreed to meet,”

replied Miss Vaughn in a dry tone. “However, Mr. Reed was passing by and kindly volunteered.”

“And happy to do so,”

added Walter.

Mrs. Gibson glanced between them, her head shaking. “Oh, that simply won’t do. This can wait until tomorrow, and I will make certain Howard is in attendance. In the meantime, there is no need for Mr. Reed to ruin his clothes. Thank you, my good sir, but you are excused.”

Though the lady’s tone was kind, Mrs. Gibson’s eyes narrowed on Walter the moment Miss Vaughn turned away, her gaze as sharp as razor blades—and just as ready to slice.

“There is still work to be done, and you need it finished tomorrow,”

said Miss Vaughn, examining the work.

“Nonsense,”

replied Mrs. Gibson, her handkerchief fluttering about as she waved away the concern. “It can keep, and I would hate to ruin Mr. Reed’s clothes.”

Forcing himself to consider the lady before him, Walter tried to impose the image of an unruly pupil atop her; the thought of Mrs. Gibson seated at a desk with a slate in hand drew a smile to his lips, and he clung to Miss Vaughn’s advice and straightened.

“My clothes are of no concern, madam. I cannot leave Miss Vaughn to struggle with this alone—”

“Of course not,”

said Mrs. Gibson, her smile sharpening. “I was going to invite her in for tea until Howard returns home. There is no reason the work cannot be delayed an hour or two.”

Miss Vaughn glanced at the distant rainclouds. “The weather—”

“If it turns, the rest can wait until tomorrow,”

insisted Mrs. Gibson as she herded the young lady toward the house.

“But we are to meet with the others to discuss the progress,”

replied Miss Vaughn with a frown. “You said it needed to be completed before—”

Mrs. Gibson’s brittle laugh cut the words short. “Oh, I don’t know what I was on about. You’ve done so much already and have earned a rest.”

Like an expert battledore player, she volleyed any excuse like an errant shuttlecock, and Walter recognized that the game was lost. Mrs. Gibson was too wily an opponent. Or rather, he hoped it was prudence rather than cowardice that drove him to leave things alone. For now.

Which was when an idea erupted into Walter’s mind. One of those vague thoughts that had flitted about in the recesses without taking solid form. Until now.

“Miss Vaughn, may I beg a favor?” he asked.

The lady paused and gently extricated herself from Mrs. Gibson as she asked, “Will you have the servants move our tools and supplies into the stables? It looks like rain, and I would hate our work to be spoiled. And then I will come up to the house when I am finished with Mr. Reed.”

As it was a perfectly reasonable request, the older lady could not deny it, so she nodded and retreated to the house—after gracing Walter with yet another gimlet eye.

With all the fervor of his heart, he prayed Miss Vaughn would not be taken in by this lady or her fool of a son. Better to remain a spinster than tie herself to a selfish fribble who could not keep his word. He hadn’t even bothered to provide her a servant for assistance.

But thoughts of the Gibsons faded when Miss Vaughn faced him with an apologetic smile. “She is a force unto herself.”

Ignoring that (Walter hadn’t stolen this moment to speak of Mrs. Gibson, after all), he forced out the words. “I was hoping you might teach my pupils about medicinal plants. Humphrey read Robinson Crusoe, and the lads are now wild about foraging and living off the land.”

“My brother and mother know far more than I do,”

she said with raised brows. “You’d be better off asking one of them.”

Walter stood there, mute and blinking as he considered this wrinkle. Again, his mind filled with all sorts of things that were supremely unhelpful in winning Miss Vaughn’s heart, and he slogged his way through them to something that would.

“That may be, but I am asking you,”

said Walter. “You have a way with the boys, and they enjoyed their time with you in the garden. I thought we could pack a picnic and make an afternoon of it, but you needn’t feel obligated to accept—”

“Not at all,”

said Miss Vaughn, holding up a staying hand. “I simply thought you would want an expert.”

I want you. The words rang in Walter’s thoughts, begging him to speak, but the invitation alone had expended the whole of his courage. With nothing left to offer, his wits failed him, leaving him standing there in silence until she deigned to speak again.

“I would love to,”

she replied with a smile.

A time and location were set in quick order, and his mind raced with all that needed doing. There was the phaeton to secure from the Sempers and a picnic to pack; surely, their cook would assist him if he bribed her with some of his housekeeper’s famous orange marmalade. Or he supposed, he could simply have his own cook prepare one—though that might draw the attention of his mother.

“Then we shall see you on Tuesday next,”

he said with a bow before exchanging his apron for his tailcoat.

Walter’s steps came lighter as he walked down the drive, each footfall carrying the faint echo of disbelief that she had said yes. The ache in his back, the dirt beneath his nails—none of it mattered. His mind raced with lists and plans, but beneath it all ran a steady hum of something stronger than excitement: possibility.

A good day’s work was done, and for the first time, he felt as though he might be on solid footing with Miss Vaughn. Something real had shifted. Something earned.

And just as he reached the edge of the drive, the words he hadn’t spoken—those words—rose once more within him. He had left them behind, thinking his courage spent, but they surged into his mind, clear and firm. The perfect words, rekindled by her smile and the promise of Tuesday next.

Walter turned and lifted his hand in a wave and, with more boldness than he’d ever expected of himself, called out, “And my mother wasn’t fobbing you off on me. It was the other way around.”

*

Eavesdropping was crass. Rude. Only someone of weak character stooped to lurking about, listening to things that weren’t intended for her. But Dora Gibson wasn’t eavesdropping. She was doing her motherly duty. Watching over her son’s interest as any mother ought. Which was commendable.

Peeking out from around the edge of the oak tree, Dora watched the pair as they spoke of picnics and lessons for Mr. Reed’s pupils. As if his true intention wasn’t clear as day. Though judging from Miss Vaughn’s reaction, Dora supposed it was still a mystery to the young lady.

Thank the heavens!

If she realized Mr. Reed’s interest, Dora would have a bigger battle on her hands. Drat Howard! How could he have squandered this perfect opportunity?