Page 34 of A Meddlesome Match (The Vaughns #3)

Walter’s exclamation certainly wasn’t a shout by any definition, but given the speaker, it was a mighty bellow—enough so that the lady gaped at her son.

Holding up his hand in apology, he added, “I know you mean well, Mother, but please, leave Miss Vaughn and me to our own devices.”

“But with Mrs. Gibson and her wretched son sniffing about, if we do not act decisively, all will be lost,”

she said, setting her pen aside to wring her hands.

Walter hesitated, the weight of her words landing squarely in his chest and knocking the breath from him. Since that revelation during their picnic, his mind had fixated on the horror of having found love without the means to secure it. To be so close. To have his fingertips brushing against the possibility, only to have it yanked away. It was too much to bear.

And yet, forcing her hand was worse still. Manipulating and twisting her about wouldn’t gain him the heart he truly wanted. Love had to be freely chosen—even if that meant risking the pain of never being chosen at all. And enabling his fears to drive his actions would guarantee failure. Just as it had during the “rescue.”

As that certainty settled into him, Walter considered the past few weeks and Mother’s efforts, and something in his memory clicked, allowing him to see it in a new light.

“I was making far better progress on my own. It may have been slow and subtle, but I was sorting matters out in my way,”

he said, straightening. And with brows raised, he added, “And if the only way to secure Miss Vaughn’s affection is through trickery, then she is not the lady for me. I refuse to play this game, Mother.”

Coming over to her desk, Walter held her gaze. He saw the strain and concern in her eyes and the tightness of her lips, but he refused to soften the words he knew needed saying.

“No more meddling. Either I will win Miss Vaughn’s heart or I will not, but regardless, it will be on my terms—not yours.”

Mother’s brows rose at that, and she watched him in silence for so long that Walter began to think he’d spoken too harshly, though he refused to recall his words. The pair sat like that for a long moment before a smile crept across her face.

“I am proud of you, Walter,”

she said, patting his cheek. “And I promise to leave you and Miss Vaughn alone from now on.”

That wasn’t the reaction he had anticipated, but Walter accepted it all the same. Straightening his tailcoat, he rested a hand on the book in his pocket for a brief moment before turning on his heel and marching out of the room.

He felt Mother’s attention on him and sensed the questions she longed to ask, but true to her word, she remained silent, and Walter turned his thoughts to what needed to happen next. And though his mouth grew so dry that his tongue glued itself to the roof, and the moisture somehow made it down to his palms, causing them to dampen until he was certain it would soak through his gloves, Walter strode out of the house.

It was time for a very important conversation.

***

Despite his family’s supplications, Dora’s father had never purchased a gig. Of course, people of their stature couldn’t bear to go without a carriage (for the gentry must own at least one, no matter how poor the condition), but he had never aspired to take the reins himself, nor had he wished his wife or daughters to do so. Their landau and coachman suited well enough.

But in the first years of their marriage, dear Gerald had gifted her this gig, granting Dora the ability to pay calls as she wished—even to the farthest reaches of the neighborhood. There was such freedom in being able to drive oneself about, and though it had been several decades since first taking up the ribbons, her spirits always soared whilst trundling down the lanes.

Doubly so at this very moment, when her conversation with Miss Vaughn had lightened her conscience enough that she could fly to Danthorpe and back. Dora even caught herself singing a jaunty country tune as they bumped along.

A good day, indeed.

A lone figure strode toward her, marching down the empty road, his gaze fixed on the ground ahead as his feet ate up the distance. There was such a strong set to his jaw and a determined glint to his gaze that Dora hardly recognized Mr. Reed until she was nearly atop him.

No meddling. That was the promise she’d given to Miss Vaughn and herself. But surely a few pleasantries weren’t meddling. That was neighborly. Expected, in fact. Otherwise, she risked being labeled rude or mistaken for a bad sport now that her son had quit the field.

Yes, Dora Gibson needed to speak to Mr. Reed. For her family’s honor and the good of the neighborhood.

Pulling Dormouse to a halt, she stopped the gig, and the gentleman absentmindedly tipped his hat in greeting as he passed, hardly aware that there was an obstacle in his way.

“And where are you off to, Mr. Reed?”

she asked, twisting in her seat to look at him. “I do hope it is Thornsby.”

The gentleman paused and turned on his heel to face her. “And if it is?”

A smile tugged at the corner of her lips. “Then I would demand, on your honor as a gentleman, that you promise to treat a certain lady as well as she deserves. She’s a good girl and ought to be cherished.”

Mr. Reed’s expression remained impassive, though the barest flash of confusion tickled his brow before he straightened and met her gaze. “I know she is, and I have every intention of doing so.”

Dora Gibson considered the gentleman before her and the distance he had to go, giving it only the briefest deliberation before she held out her hand, and like the good lad he was, he took it and helped her down without question.

“Do not keep her waiting,”

she said, nodding toward the carriage and placing the reins in his hand. “Leave the gig with my daughter when you return home, and I will send a servant to fetch it tomorrow.”

Mr. Reed stared at the strips of leather, his brows twisting as his eyes met hers with silent questions.

“My home isn’t far, and you’d best hurry to your Miss Vaughn if you wish to make amends,”

she said, waving away his objections before he could voice them. “Now, go to it.”

Patting his cheek (which only added to his visible confusion), Dora Gibson turned away and forced her feet down the lane toward her final destination of the day.

Admitting fault was never an easy thing. Pride clung stubbornly to one’s mistakes, dressing them up in justifications and softening the edges of blame until they became comfortable to bear. It was far simpler to convince oneself that circumstances were at fault and misunderstanding played a greater role than misjudgment. To acknowledge error was to strip away all defenses and stand bare before one’s failings.

A mighty feat, indeed. Yet, like so many of the most difficult things in life, it brought forth even greater rewards, and whatever toll the effort exacted, the resultant joy was tenfold. Admitting fault did not undo the past, nor did it always mend the damage done, but it allowed for the first step toward something better.

Dora arrived at Woodbridge Cottage, but despite the good she’d done today, she found it far more difficult to cross this threshold than Hawthorne House. But then, it was easier to admit fault with Miss Vaughn as the damage done to that poor girl was far greater and she was far more innocent.

A flutter of curtain testified that she had been seen, and that helped ease Dora’s feet forward. The only thing worse than approaching the house would be turning tail and running. An earnest apology was far more respectable than a cowardly retreat—and Dora Gibson was no coward.

When she reached the front door, she was promptly ushered into the parlor, where Mrs. Reed sat waiting, and Dora took comfort in the fact that the woman looked more wary than victorious.

As there was no point in preambles, Dora stepped forward. “I apologize for my behavior of late. It was wrong of me to meddle with your son, and I assure you my actions had nothing to do with my opinion of him or your family. My only motive was to secure my son’s future, and I hope you will accept my deepest apologies for any harm I caused.”

Dora wasn’t proud of how carefully she had crafted her speech, but neither was she ashamed of it. There were times for spontaneity and sincerity in their raw form, but this wasn’t one of them, and she had weighed her words and tone with care. A dash of bluntness helped to unsettle Mrs. Reed long enough for Dora to get the apology out, and focusing on the motherly motives was bound to arouse the other’s sympathy as it mirrored her own.

Perhaps it said something about her character that she approached this conversation with such calculation, but the intentions were good and her motives were pure. And this needed saying.

Of course, it wouldn’t hurt to add a bit of sweetness. And it helped that it was steeped in truth.

“I admire your son, and I readily admit that he is a better match for Miss Vaughn than my Howard.”

Drawing in a deep breath, Dora released it in a long sigh. “It is clear my son is unworthy of her, and I can only hope that one day he will be as wise as yours.”

Mrs. Reed’s expression was unreadable, and the silence stretched between them, but Dora had come prepared for that. She had no intention of squirming beneath the weight of it. Instead, she lifted her chin ever so slightly and pressed on.

“And I must say,”

she added, folding her hands neatly before her, “your maneuver with Mrs. Tumble was nothing short of masterful. I did not anticipate it in the least, and that, I believe, is the mark of true skill.”

She tilted her head in reluctant admiration. “You are a formidable strategist, Mrs. Reed.”

The other woman’s lips twitched, though whether in amusement or satisfaction, Dora could not be certain.

“Well, one does what one must,”

mused Mrs. Reed, voice as smooth as ever. Then, with the faintest arch of her brow, she added, “I never had this much trouble with my other children.”

Dora let out a soft huff of laughter. “I could say the same.”

That, at last, drew a genuine chuckle from Mrs. Reed, a soft, knowing sound that seemed to dissolve the last remnants of strain between them. It was not a truce (as Dora Gibson had been well and truly trounced) but rather a quiet recognition of the battle they had waged and the skill each had brought to the field, and it helped to smooth the sharp edges of their rivalry.

“In different circumstances, we might’ve been friends,”

said Dora.

“Had we been, I could’ve anticipated your strategies better,”

replied Mrs. Reed with a wrinkle of her nose. “Mrs. Trumble might’ve been an inspired move, but I fear the rest of my actions caused far more harm than good.”

A strange unease coiled in Dora’s stomach, absurd and entirely irritating. She was a grown woman, fully capable of handling difficult conversations, and yet she hesitated, smoothing a hand over the folds of her skirt as if the motion might steady her. It was ridiculous, really—what was there to be nervous about? And yet the thought of extending even the smallest olive branch left her throat uncomfortably tight.

She inhaled, slow and measured, before forcing herself to meet Mrs. Reed’s gaze.

“Perhaps,”

Dora began carefully, fingers toying with the seam of her sleeve, “in the future, we might…work together.”

The words sat oddly on her tongue, emerging hesitant and disjointed. Dora felt the fool, but now that they were spoken, there was no taking them back. Yes, a grown woman had just asked another if she wished to be friends—like a child begging for someone to come play.

Standing there, examining one another for a long moment, Dora was ready to retreat when Mrs. Reed motioned toward the sofa.

“Would you care to sit?”

The offer had Dora’s brows rising, and though she longed to rush forward to do so, a swell of guilt loosened her tongue further.

“I will warn you that I am often brash and speak before I think, rushing headlong into trouble without meaning to,”

she said with a sigh. “I am a troublesome person to keep around.”

“Perhaps,”

replied Mrs. Reed with raised brows. “But I can be stubbornly silent, unwilling to admit thoughts and feelings without someone pressing the issue, and except for the past few weeks, I tend toward cowardice. A bit of brashness might suit me well.”

Dora settled into the seat with a smile. “Then perhaps we might discuss our plans for your son and Miss Vaughn?”

Mrs. Reed stiffened at that, dropping heavily onto her chair. “What do you mean?”

“Come now, I want to see Miss Vaughn happily settled, and every suitor requires a little help—”

“No,”

she replied with a strained laugh. “I have learned my lesson. My meddling days are over, and I trust Walter to go about his business as he sees fit.”

Dora sighed, tilting her head as if weighing the matter. “A pity.”

Mrs. Reed gave her a pointed look, one brow arching in clear warning.

With a reluctant nod, Dora leaned back, smoothing her skirts with an air of resignation. “Very well. If you insist.”

“I do,”

said Mrs. Reed, eyeing her warily.

Dora’s lips curved ever so slightly. “Then I shall leave it in your son’s capable hands.”

For now.