Page 33 of A Meddlesome Match (The Vaughns #3)

Men ruled the world. Or so they liked to believe. Conversing in their clubs, pontificating in Parliament, bandying about business—they made plans whilst imagining the world spun at the flick of their fingers. Lords and masters of all they surveyed. But behind every polished speech, grand decision, and lauded achievement was someone ensuring it all unfolded according to plan. Someone remembering the details. Anticipating problems before they arrived. Cleaning up the messes no one else noticed.

They may praise the Wellingtons of the world, but everyone knew a general was nothing without a strong aide-de-camp. After all, even the most carefully crafted strategies couldn’t come to fruition on their own—and Dora Gibson had long accepted that it fell to women like her to keep it all from unraveling.

With the annual flower show nearly upon them, Dora’s schedule was full of the tasks that needed seeing to: arranging the judges’ table, locating the missing trellis, ensuring Mrs. Frampton’s prized dahlias were placed where they would be seen (but not too near Miss Everly’s, lest another feud erupt), and a dozen more tasks that were far more pressing than lurking outside Miss Vaughn’s home.

Yet there Dora stood, her feet unwilling to carry her forward or turn her away.

A strange, fluttering tension coiled in her stomach, light yet persistent, as though her very bones were restless. Her fingers felt oddly weightless, her breath too shallow. Her body clearly knew something was amiss though she struggled to identify the sensation plaguing her. It wasn’t fear, nor anything so dramatic, but an unfamiliar tightness in her chest and an unsettled awareness she couldn’t shake.

Dora had never seen the sense in fretting over what could not be changed, nor in dreading what had yet to come. The past was done, the future unwritten, so what good was there to be had in borrowing trouble? And yet, here it was, needling beneath her skin, insubstantial yet impossible to ignore.

It wasn’t as though she had done something so very wicked that she needed to twist herself into knots. Intentions were important, and Dora’s had been nothing but good. Yet even as she thought that, the old adage flitted into her thoughts, reminding her that even those could lead to hellish outcomes. And her life had certainly proved that of late.

Never before had she hoped to be turned away, but when she handed over her calling card to the maid, Dora prayed the Vaughns were not at home. But this needed to be done. And when she was ushered through the front door, she found herself trapped in a state of relief and disappointment.

Yet more strange sensations.

When the parlor door opened, she found Miss Vaughn seated on the sofa, her parents positioned on either side. The young lady looked worn, and it was clear that her excuses for abandoning her work on the flower show were not feigned; Miss Vaughn ought to be properly resting lest her illness grow into something far worse, though Dora knew better than to lecture the girl at this juncture.

“I wasn’t certain you would allow me in,”

said Dora with a strained chuckle as she took the seat opposite them.

Miss Vaughn gave no response to that, but her mother’s eyes narrowed with all the silent strength the lady possessed (which was vast, indeed), and though Dr. Vaughn’s expression was not as sharp as his wife’s, the gentleman met that pathetic attempt at humor with cold dismissal.

Dora refused to wilt. Regardless of the reason for her visit, Mrs. Dora Gibson wasn’t one to bow beneath such scrutiny. Or flee when there was work to be done.

“I owe you an apology, Miss Vaughn,”

said Dora, meeting the young lady’s gaze before turning to her parents. “And you as well.”

Clearing her throat, Dora ignored the flash of confusion that crossed the trio’s expressions and focused on what needed to be said. “I am brusque and far too quick to speak without thinking. However, this visit has been on my mind for days, and I assure you that what I have to say is the product of careful consideration.”

She paused to gather her thoughts, but when the silence stretched out too long, Miss Vaughn broke it.

“Why are you here, Mrs. Gibson? I do not wish to be rude, but I refuse to be dragged into whatever schemes you are hatching.”

“I promise there are no schemes. I am here to prostrate myself.”

Another strained chuckle emerged as Dora added, “Metaphorically, of course. I doubt my joints would allow me to do so literally at my age.”

But the others made no move to smile nor did their expressions soften at that.

Shifting in her seat, Dora dove into the heart of the matter. “Mothers are odd creatures. Despite knowing our children better than they know themselves, we often see them as the sum of their potential rather than who they truly are. And it pains me to admit that I have been guilty of that blindness for far too long, Miss Vaughn. You do deserve better than Howard.”

Mrs. Vaughn’s brows rose at that, though Dr. Vaughn continued to watch her carefully, suspicion tugging at his brow. But the young lady in question gave no sign of her feelings, which added to the itchy discomfort scratching at Dora’s skin.

“It is the very reason why I have fought so hard to make the match,”

she continued. “You encourage Howard to be better, and I fear my determination to do right by my child came at your expense. I apologize for meddling in your life, embarrassing you at the wedding, and being so unbearably thick that you—sweet, endlessly patient Sadie Vaughn—were forced to give me a tongue-lashing I shan’t soon forget.”

Rising to her feet with a sharp nod, Dora added, “I do not expect your forgiveness, nor do I plan to heal the breach between you and my son. Your words did not fall on deaf ears, and I promise not to meddle again, Miss Vaughn.”

With that, she turned away and strode toward the door.

“That is all?”

asked Miss Vaughn, stopping Dora in her tracks. “Or are you simply feigning a surrender so you can retreat and mount a stronger offensive later?”

Dora’s brows rose as she faced the young lady once more. “That does sound like something I would do, but I assure you I have no grand designs. Whether or not you believe it, I truly thought I was securing your happiness. I wish you only the best.”

“Which you no longer believe is your son?”

demanded Miss Vaughn, the surprise in her eyes shining bright for all to see.

“Though I tried to ignore it, Howard has a selfish streak that makes it impossible for him to love you as he ought. You deserve better.”

Holding back a sigh, Dora examined the weight that had taken up residence in her heart since her son’s miserable proposal. So many troubles of late had sprung from her refusing to see that truth for what it was. All those glorious good intentions that had led to misery.

But as she studied Miss Vaughn, Dora saw something in her eyes that gave her pause. She couldn’t say what it was precisely, but Dora felt something buried beneath the surface that had naught to do with this fracture between their families. And considering what had happened of late, she suspected she knew the source.

“However, I saw you and Mr. Reed together, and it is clear he values you,”

said Dora. “A far better match if I may say so.”

Miss Vaughn’s brow arched. “Is that your attempt to not meddle?”

Though the words were spoken lightly, something sorrowful lingered beneath them, and Dora realized that her guess had been correct; Mr. Reed and Miss Vaughn had quarreled.

“I only want the best for you, my dear girl,”

said Dora, her gaze lingering on all three as she pleaded for them to believe her. “And I do not want you to stumble into regret because you are judging Mr. Reed by the Gibson standard.”

Dr. Vaughn cleared his throat, his expression tightening as he narrowed his eyes, and Dora held up her hands in surrender.

“Not another peep from me on that score.”

Then, giving the trio a curtsy, Dora swept from the room without another word.

Though some part of her had hoped for a grand display of acceptance and forgiveness, she held her head a little higher as she made her way out of Hawthorne House. Dora had done what she came to do, and there was something undeniably satisfying in the act itself. A wrong, however unintended, had been addressed.

Her steps were lighter as she strode to her gig, the tension in her shoulders easing with every pace. The air felt a little fresher, the weight on her chest a little less oppressive, and Dora allowed herself a small, satisfied smile as she climbed into her seat.

***

The view from the window was a familiar one—a small garden, neat and well-kept, though the muted afternoon light cast it in a duller shade. The roses were awash with blossoms, releasing their heavenly scent into the warm air as the campanula swayed with the shifting breeze, looking like church bells jingling with each bob. A lone bee hovered lazily over the foxgloves, its quiet hum breaking the silence.

It was a peaceful prospect and entirely lost on Walter as his eyes kept turning to the bit of roof that peeked over the hedges dividing his family’s property from the Queensburys’. He set his jaw and looked away; worrying about the Gibsons and his rival’s actions had caused nothing but troubles, and Walter was done giving that fool any consideration.

Besides, the weight in his pocket reminded him of more important things.

Two days. Walter had allowed himself that time to secure the book, and now that it was in his possession, nothing was keeping him from driving straight to Thornsby and throwing himself on Miss Vaughn’s mercy. Except his cowardice. The edges of the book poked at his ribs, providing a physical prod to get on with his business. Waiting any longer would be foolhardy.

Yet the memory of her fury burned in his mind. Forcing his company on her would only repeat the terrible behavior that had earned her ire in the first place. Yet to throw aside the possibility of love and happiness? As great as his mistake had been (and Walter readily admitted it had been great, indeed), the past few weeks had only proven how perfectly suited Miss Vaughn was for him, and Walter didn’t think it was cocky to say that she was coming to feel the same.

Laughter echoed from his memory, and Walter swiped it away. This wasn’t a time for thoughts of Miss Weathersby.

“Do not fret, my boy,”

said Mother from her writing desk.

Walter turned around to face her with brows raised. Lifting her pen in a faint salute, she grinned and nodded at the paper.

“I am certain this will do the trick,”

she said as she scribbled away.

“What is it?”

Walter’s brows furrowed as his stomach sank, though he didn’t know why it did.

“You just need a few kind words and a token. Then all will be right as rain,”

she said with a decisive nod.

Oh, yes. His insides were warning him of something dire, though Walter couldn’t decide what it was, even as he looked over her shoulder to see the letter addressed to Miss Vaughn.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Ladies adore a love token,”

said Mother. “With the roses in bloom, we can send her a bouquet that will erase every last bit of irritation over that little mistake.”

“It wasn’t a little mistake,”

mumbled Walter, his brow furrowing as he tried to comprehend this strange turn of events. “And Miss Vaughn doesn’t care for cut flowers.”

“Nonsense. The last bouquet did wonders—”

He stiffened. “What bouquet?”

Setting down her pen, Mother winced and turned pleading eyes on him. “I know you struggle to make your feelings known and wouldn’t have dared to give her a token so early in your attempts to curry her favor, but ladies adore such things, so I took it upon myself to send one on your behalf. With all that Mrs. Gibson is doing to secure Miss Vaughn for her son, I must take action if you are to win the day.”

Heat surged through him, sharp and unfamiliar, like a spark catching on dry tinder. His chest tightened, his pulse hammering in a way he scarcely recognized—was this anger? It coiled low and insistent, a flame where there had only ever been cool restraint. The sheer force of it startled him, but there was no mistaking its presence as Mother babbled on about the games the two matrons had been playing with their children.

Miss Vaughn’s temper had been entirely justified, and at that moment, Walter felt an echo of her words resurface in his own mouth; they fought their way through his shock, frustration, and years of silence. All the many restraints he’d placed on his heart and his behavior, which had begun to fray of late, snapped free, and his tongue loosened.

“Leave us be, Mother!”