Page 28 of A Meddlesome Match (The Vaughns #3)

Jerking back, Sadie shoved at his chest with all her might. With him angled toward her, Howard’s balance was off enough that the action (and the shock of her acting in such a manner) caused him to stumble backward. His foot caught a bench leg and toppled him into an obliging bush, which swallowed him until only his feet stuck out of the branches, kicking as he shouted and fought to wriggle free.

Turning on her heel, Sadie marched away, making straight for the doors that led into the house, but Mrs. Gibson appeared there before she could step through, her hands raised as though to calm a raging horse.

“Miss Vaughn, please. Do reconsider.”

Mrs. Gibson’s eyes echoed her pleas, shining with all the genuine desire of one whose goals were pure. Or so she believed. While motivations were important when considering the whole of a situation, “the ends”

could never fully justify “means” that inflicted such harm and pain.

And it was like Mrs. Gibson had poured pitch atop the crackling flames.

*

Though no one could control every circumstance, an intelligent and resourceful person understood that one was rarely at the mercy of fate. And yet, it had been some time since Dora Gibson had felt so utterly powerless. Like a supplicant at her mistress’s feet, she prayed with all her soul that the young lady would listen. And, if nothing else, allow her the opportunity to set things right.

“Miss Vaughn—”

“Do not say another word, Mrs. Gibson.”

Miss Vaughn’s voice swept through the garden like an arctic frost, leaving everything frozen in its wake, though there was a brightness in her gaze that spoke of a properly stoked temper. Lifting her already tall chin, Miss Vaughn glared down her nose, and Dora couldn’t help but stare. This was nothing like the young lady she knew.

“I was raised to respect my elders, so I will temper my words,”

said Miss Vaughn in a quiet voice that sent a chill down Dora’s spine. “It is time to surrender. I will not bend to your wishes, and I will not tolerate your meddling any longer.”

“But—”

Holding up a warning finger, the young lady’s gaze burned. “You humiliated me publicly, then hunted and harangued me like a prey animal set loose for your amusement. Even if I were to reconsider your son’s suit—which I will not—I refuse to be your daughter-in-law and spend the rest of my days being pestered into doing things as you see fit whilst my husband defers to you in all things, unwilling to be his own man.”

Defenses sprang to Dora’s lips, but seizing hold of that impulse, she forced herself to consider her words. No matter what Miss Vaughn thought of her, she could approach a situation without “haranguing” her.

Yet how could she defend herself when her only motivation was securing her son’s happiness? What mother wouldn’t move heaven and earth for her child? And it wasn’t as though Dora had acted contrary to Miss Vaughn’s best interest. The young lady had loved Howard for ages, and that couldn’t vanish in an instant.

Words scattered like frightened birds, flying out of reach, and Dora begged for inspiration. Some fragment of wisdom, some scrap of grace. Anything to pierce the barrier Miss Vaughn had placed between her and the Gibsons. Something to make her see the error of her ways.

What greater happiness could the lady hope to find than with Howard? Their deep and abiding friendship had blessed them both for the past two years, and beyond that, Howard Gibson was handsome, possessed a thriving estate and income, and had charm to spare. Mr. Reed could not compete.

But even her lagging wits knew better than to broach that subject. So, Dora offered up the only words she could think to say.

“I apologize, Miss Vaughn. I am truly sorry for any harm I’ve caused you. It was never my intention, and I am ashamed to know that my actions have fundamentally damaged your good opinion of me and my son. However—”

Miss Vaughn’s gaze blazed, singeing everything in its path.

“Please,”

said Dora, holding up her hands in placation. “I simply wanted what was best for you both. I beg you to reconsider.”

At that, Miss Vaughn’s eyes narrowed, but when the young lady glanced between mother and son, something shifted inside her. The fury still burned, but Miss Vaughn’s shoulders fell, and her posture loosened. However, that chin remained lifted.

“If I were your daughter, would you wish her to reconsider a beau who had treated her as poorly as Howard has treated me?”

asked Miss Vaughn, her voice low but no less powerful. “To spend her life with someone who plays the role of friend only when it suits him? Who constantly depends on her to mend his broken heart, only to brush hers aside?”

Miss Vaughn spoke quietly. Evenly. Exerting absolute control over her words and the emotions with which she spoke. But inside those dark eyes, a fire raged, and each accusation struck its intended target, burying deep into Dora’s heart.

From behind Miss Vaughn, Howard emerged from the planting bed, brushing off the leaves and soil that clung to his coat and trousers as he came to stand beside his mother.

“Tell me this, Mrs. Gibson,”

she added. “Would you wish her to spend her days with someone who views the match as ‘settling?’ Or would you rather she remain at home where she is cherished and prized?”

Though Dora couldn’t speak the words, an answer surged through her, strong and pulsing with all the certainty of her soul. Just the thought of her beloved girls trapped in such a marriage was enough to send her motherly instincts into a dither, demanding she take action.

But Dora didn’t need to speak. They both knew the truth. Miss Vaughn straightened as the fire in her gaze cooled, and glancing between the Gibsons, she gave a curt nod to each, like a player acknowledging a victory at the end of a match.

Turning a gimlet eye to Howard, the young lady added, “If you have any sense of honor, Mr. Gibson, you will not contact me again. I am done being your convenient companion. I deserve better.”

And with that, the lady stepped around Dora and strode away.

***

Thick clouds filled the sky, though the sun made its presence known with fleeting pools of light that peeked through the breaks. It was as though the world was caught between—sun and rain, afternoon and evening, warm and cool—uncertain which it wished to be.

Walter stepped out onto the front steps, his mind heavy from the day’s work. The weight of hours spent indoors lifted when he felt the cool stone beneath his shoes, and for a moment, a streak of light shone on his face. He drew in a slow breath, letting the stillness settle around him, his gaze drifting over the quiet landscape. The land beyond Montmore Hall stretched lazily, the gentle rise and fall of the parkland interrupted only by thick copses and flocks of sheep grazing on the grass.

Trudging down the lane, he considered all that had happened today, this week, this month, and this year. Time blended together, as did the lists of that which he had done and had yet to do. Lesson plans mixed with construction details, leaving his mind flitting from idea to idea like the insects and the wildflowers just beyond the lane.

“Mr. Reed!”

Spinning on his heel, he spied Mr. Dix shuffling down the lane after him, waving his hat. With heaving breaths, the fellow stopped before him, fanning himself, and Walter felt like scowling. Rehearsing a scold in his thoughts, he wondered how to make his displeasure known.

But before he could say a word, Mr. Dix stuffed the hat on his head.

“I apologize, Mr. Reed. I know we were to meet this morning, but after the downpour yesterday, the roads are ghastly.”

Lifting his foot and setting it down on the soft earth, Mr. Dix grimaced. “Many of the smaller lanes haven’t benefited from improvements in decades, and the one leading to my house was flooded, so I spent all day fishing my gig out of the mud.”

“Ah, yes,”

said Walter with a nod. “I am sorry that it was such a chore, but thank you for meeting me here. It’s been difficult to visit the building site of late.”

He motioned the fellow ahead, and they walked down the lane.

“And how is the work progressing?”

asked Walter.

“As expected, though I need to speak to you about a serious matter,”

said Mr. Dix, peeking at his employer from the corner of his eye. “It appears we require more plaster. At least double the original order.”

Walter’s brows rose at that, but before he could say a word, Mr. Dix began rambling about all the reasons why that was the case, his words meandering along in the manner of those who liked to speak but had little to say.

“So, if I understand correctly, the issue is that the plasterer mixed it wrong, leaving me to pay for an entirely new batch?”

asked Walter.

“It is more complicated than that, Mr. Reed,”

said Mr. Dix with the tone of one confident in his vastly superior intellect. Yet when the fellow went on to explain the situation, it was clear enough to Walter that his assessment had been accurate—no matter how many rambling descriptions Mr. Dix tossed at him.

The fellow spoke as though dealing with an errant child demanding to know something that was beyond his understanding. The whole situation was infuriating, firstly because Walter was not a dunce, and secondly because he wouldn’t even speak to Orson with such condescension. It was demeaning to them both.

Thinking of his pupil brought Miss Vaughn’s advice to mind. Though Walter had been attempting to embrace her philosophy of late, there had yet to be a serious need for it. And his pulse quickened.

Think of him as Rolland. He is asking for more time to finish work he ought to have completed already—if the lad hadn’t put it off. An all-too-common scenario in his world.

“Your laborer has caused a significant problem, yet I am to bear the brunt of both your mistakes?”

Walter ignored the weakness in his hands; it was as though the muscles had turned to jelly, quivering with the slightest breeze.

“I know you are unused to such matters, but I assure you that such expenses are commonplace.”

And with that, Mr. Dix launched into another diatribe, clearly wishing to drown him in words until he couldn’t argue again.

The flutter in his chest sank to his stomach, and matters worsened when his traitorous mind filled with visions of his inevitable failure, thoroughly reminding him of how readily people brushed him aside. Turning his attention inward, Walter forced his thoughts back to his first days as a schoolmaster when he was still finding his footing and questioning his every decision.

There had been a moment—or rather, a lad.

Master John Barrows. Should he live to be a hundred years old, Walter would always remember that name. The sort of precocious pupil who caused hardened headmasters to turn prematurely gray.

In Walter’s experience, most tutors fell into one of two categories. The first being the “spare the rod, spoil the child”

zealots, who believed respect was gained by force and that any familiarity led to full-scale revolts in the classroom. The second embraced the philosophy that friendship with one’s pupils was paramount—even if it meant sacrificing their authority in the name of maintaining that relationship. Both believed their chosen method was the only manner in which to instill their lessons and properly shape their pupils’ character.

While the first philosophy encouraged the appearance of obedience, such behavior was shallow at best, and any power gained was lost the moment the rod slipped from one’s hand. The second garnered popularity and even affection, but without respect, lessons rarely made an impression and the work was never finished.

It was the age-old battle between stringency and permissiveness, with each side believing the answer lay in one or the other. But like so much of life, moderation was key—a lesson Walter had learned from John.

Neither side had laid claim to the lad. Each punishment only encouraged greater feats of stubbornness, and those who attempted to cajole John into good behavior were ignored or made to feel the fool. A lesson the beloved Mr. Slipton had learned when the lad seized control during a reenactment of the Battle of Hastings, which ended with a staunch Anglo-Saxon victory and the Duke of Normandy strung up like a scarecrow on the school’s front yard.

Yet Walter had sensed possibility in John. Not an unmanageable dervish or lost cause, but a child yearning for boundaries and challenges, consequences and compliments, high expectations followed by great rewards.

Though it had taken vast amounts of patience and experimentation, Walter had found his way to that balance of structure and support, which allowed both schoolmaster and pupil to thrive. And with that success, it grew easy to stand before even the most troublesome of classes, taking on that challenge with the certainty that he would sort it out in the end.

Surely, if Walter Reed could manage John Barrows, he could manage Mr. Dix.

With a silent prayer, Walter held onto those lessons and Miss Vaughn’s confidence in his ability. And rather than Rolland, he imagined Master John Barrow standing before him, testing every boundary Walter ever set for him.