Page 20 of A Meddlesome Match (The Vaughns #3)

One ought not to look a gift horse in the mouth. While not every offering possessed the desired value or sentiment, that did not alter the fact that it was a gift, freely and generously given. Receiving a token of affection ought to be celebrated. Marveled over, even. To criticize or reject that offering was more an indictment of the receiver’s character than of the present itself. And having little experience with such things, Sadie had expected to feel eager—not confused.

But what if it was thoughtlessly given? At what point did a wholly unsuitable gift become an insult?

Staring at the bouquet on her side table, which had been prepared and placed in a vase courtesy of the maid, Sadie didn’t think herself entitled or ungrateful, yet she couldn’t help wondering about her assessment of herself. And Mr. Reed.

Women often claimed men did not listen, but Sadie thought the problem lay in how differently they communicated. Where the fairer sex preferred hints and gentle prodding, men weren’t subtle creatures. Such ambiguity was lost on them, and if one desired action, directness was the better course.

Yet Sadie hadn’t thought their conversation about flowers subtle, and still he had chosen to send her a bouquet of peonies. Such a senseless gift was more befitting Howard. Assuming he were inclined to send her anything.

Considering the bouquet before her, unease skittered down Sadie’s spine. Surely these weren’t from the same man who had come to her rescue, adding hours of travel to his day simply to save her feet. And had so willingly rolled up his sleeves and set to work on her behalf. And listened intently to her advice as though she were the font of all wisdom.

Sadie examined the note that accompanied the flowers, but there was hardly anything to it. Simply her name listed as addressee with his signature indicating the giver. Nothing shocking or revealing there—if not for the handwriting. Though Mr. Reed seemed the sort to have neat penmanship, there was a distinctly feminine slant to this note. Written by his mother, then?

Mr. Reed had stated only yesterday that the interlude at the Overtons’ ball hadn’t been an example of his mother fobbing Sadie off on her son (a revelation that was thrilling in countless ways), but did it improve matters if it was reversed? Either way, it meant his mother was meddling and pressing the issue, rather than her son.

So, which was worse? That Mr. Reed had sent her something entirely unsuitable (which proved that he either put little thought into it or had ignored what she had told him), or that his mother was the “gift horse”

behind it?

The first, she supposed. Neither was particularly appealing, yet in the quiet corners of her heart, Sadie felt warmth sparking to life at the thought that he was pursuing her in some fashion. Any fashion.

Perched on the edge of her mattress, Sadie’s spine stiffened as that thought struck her to the core. Did she truly want “any”

attention? Regardless of worthiness? She reached for the bouquet, her fingers brushing against the buttery petals that would die all too soon, and frowned as that warmth sputtered and died.

Any man? Anyone who deigned to settle for her? Any fellow willing to accept a wife who had little to recommend herself? Beyond a preternatural ability to win over his mother, that is.

Yet as she sat there, Sadie’s thoughts turned to the future, seeing it stretch before her much as it had over the past few years. Her friends all married, their growing families demanding their time and attention, whilst Sadie remained under her father’s roof. Her already small social circle would shrink until it was only her and her aging parents. And eventually, they would be gone as well, and Sadie would be alone.

Even her solitary self longed for connections. Needed them. To have someone care for her. People whose lives were made fundamentally better because of her. Those who would feel the loss keenly when her mortal journey came to an end, and though she knew her siblings and niece would mourn her, their world would spin on with little disruption.

Deep in Sadie’s heart, the doors she’d locked long ago rattled on their hinges. But what did it matter if both Mr. Reed and Howard were thoughtless? If only Mrs. Reed and Mrs. Gibson wished for the union? Both men needed a bride, and plenty married as their parents wished. And then she wouldn’t be alone. If nothing else, she would have children of her own. A home.

This was dangerous ground to tread. Sadie knew it. Yet her strength failed her as she wallowed in those thoughts. For all that she had lectured Mr. Reed about being courageous, Miss Sarah Vaughn was no better when faced with temptation.

Shoulders falling, that old sorrow settled over her as she considered all the hopes that hadn’t come to fruition. And never would. Dreams once so bright now seemed foolish in hindsight, the kind of tender wishes a girl could afford to make before the world taught her better. She had long since learned not to expect more, and yet the ache of what might have been lingered all the same.

The grandfather clock chimed in the hall, forcing Sadie from her stupor as she shot up from her bed. Surely it couldn’t be that late! But she didn’t need to count the sounds to know she’d wallowed her way into tardiness. Abandoning the bouquet on the side table, she snatched up her bonnet and cloak, pulling them into place as she hurried down the stairs.

Before she could reach the handle, the front door burst open, narrowly missing her as her brother and his family poured into the entryway. Little Caroline wriggled in Edward’s arms, doing a decent impression of an acrobat and contortionist as she squealed with delight.

“Caro, peace,”

he said as the child grabbed at his hat and threw it—which was deftly caught by her mama before it fell to the ground.

Handing it to the maid, Joanna tore at her bonnet strings and cloak, casting them off with a heaving sigh. “Why must I always be expecting when it is so wretchedly hot?”

“Ah’ Sadie!”

cried Caro, reaching for the lady who was guaranteed to be her savior, and Sadie obliged, taking the child and kissing her sweet neck until she let out a burble of laughter.

Joanna drew closer, bussing her sister-in-law on the cheeks. “So many women claim bearing children is a magical experience, but it is a lie, I tell you. A pox on them all!”

“Still feeling poorly?”

asked Sadie with a rueful smile as she bounced Caro. “Though I am pleased to see you, I fear I do not have time for a visit.”

“Visit?”

asked Edward with a frown. “Didn’t Gregory tell you? We fetched Mother and Father from Whitton, as they were unable to secure a stagecoach to Thornsby.”

Peering around the great lump of a man who was her brother, Sadie spied the pair walking slowly down the front walk. Despite her nearly thirty years of life, she felt like squealing just as Caro had done, but she contented herself with slipping past Edward and rushing to greet them.

But Sadie ground to a halt at the sight of her father. Despite being nearly seventy years of age, Arthur Vaughn was a healthy and hale man, the sturdy sort who moved through life with a steady fortitude that never lagged—until their time suddenly came to a close. Yet he looked to have aged twenty years.

A thick bandage wound over his eyes, but even that covering couldn’t hide the marks along his forehead and cheekbones, which showed that he’d been bled. Frequently. Little blisters from the cupping dotted around them as well. And though he held firmly to Mama as she guided him down the walkway, it didn’t hide the spasms that shook his limbs and made it difficult for him to walk.

Tears blurred her vision, and Sadie’s gaze turned to her mother, who met that with a silent shake of her head.

“Be strong,”

mouthed Mama, and Sadie nodded, quickly brushing at her eyes, though it was difficult to keep them at bay.

“Papa,”

said Sadie, forcing a bright note into her tone as she drew closer.

“Oh, my dear,”

he said, releasing Mama long enough to draw his daughter and granddaughter into his arms.

“I am so glad you are home. I’ve missed you terribly,” she said.

Papa’s lips pulled down, his marred brow furrowing as he turned his face toward her. “I hear you’ve had a rough go of it.”

That was enough to bring more tears to Sadie’s eyes—as much for her father as for herself, as he had clearly had a “rough go of it”

himself. But drawing on her strength, she forced herself to keep her composure. Caro patted her cheeks with a beaming grin, granting her aunt enough control to set her feelings aside.

“Yes, well, we can discuss that later,”

she said, motioning toward the door he could not see. “We need to get you settled. You must be exhausted after such a long trip.”

“Especially when one is a pig-headed mule of a man who insists on making the journey all in one go,”

said Mama in a dry tone.

“I would rather recuperate here than in some inn,”

he retorted.

“You know you have taken a terrible misstep if Mama is lecturing you about being stubborn,”

said Sadie in as light a tone as she could muster, and Mama helped matters along by looking quite affronted by that.

“Traitor,”

she murmured.

Shifting Caro to her hip, Sadie tried to hold on, but the child wriggled free and toddled down the path ahead of them. And with her hands now empty, Sadie helped guide Father into the entryway and tossed her bonnet on the side table, drawing Mama’s attention.

“Have you someplace to be?”

she asked.

“It is nothing important, and I can send my apologies,”

replied Sadie, helping with Papa’s greatcoat.

“I can manage,”

he said, a sharp edge to his words, and she jerked her hands away. Mama’s gaze shone with apologies, and Sadie turned her attention to her cloak, setting it on the side table to be dealt with later.

“Do not cancel your afternoon on our account,”

said Mama with a frown.

“I haven’t seen you in weeks,”

said Sadie, waving the objections aside. “Mrs. Stoughton is simply taking us to Danthorpe for yet another meeting concerning the flower show, and there’s no reason I cannot beg off. It’s little more than an excuse for afternoon tea, and they shan’t be discussing anything of importance to me.”

“We are both so fatigued that we will likely take to our beds,”

Mama insisted. Papa opened his mouth as though to object, but she squeezed his hand, and he remained silent—though his lips tightened into a firm line.

“Regardless,”

replied Sadie, scurrying away to write the note before either could protest further.