A Practical Arrangement Read online

  A Practical Arrangement

  Nadja Notariani

  A Practical Arrangement © Nadja Notariani 2012

  Acknowledgments

  Claus ~ As ever, your humor carries the day.

  Froderick ~ Atlantis and romance. Worlds are at our fingertips.

  Aunt Jean ~ For a lifetime of support and affection.

  Anthony ~ For believing. And for suffering quietly over takeout many nights.

  The Critique Chicks ~ Many, many thanks.

  Chapter One

  “It is unfortunate the young man lost his parents, especially after that sad business with his brother.” Albert Grey sighed, the tragic, long ago events revisited in conversation. “It is no wonder Thomas avoids any serious pursuits.”

  “It is high time he starts! A year has passed. Stanton's will is clear, Albert. I am to employ any means necessary to shock the boy into responsible adulthood.” The gleam in Winston Platte’s hooded eyes grew downright mischievous. “Now, are we agreed?”

  Albert Grey chuckled, his own dark eyes twinkling merrily. “By Jove, I believe we are.”

  The conspirators shook hands, their bargain sealed.

  “Ensuring this match will test our mettle, old friend. My daughter has an iron will.”

  “As does my nephew! Have no fear, Albert, old chap. Providence shall carry the day. We'll simply help it along.” Winston Platte sobered, regarding Albert seriously. “Will you disclose our plan to your wife?”

  “By all that's holy, man! My wife, Opal, would surely suffer a case of the vapors if she discovered our plan!”

  “I see, I see. My Dorcas knows. I never could hold a secret from that woman.” Winston's countenance softened anytime he spoke of his wife. Returning to the discussion, he added, “Are things any better?”

  Albert winced at the question. “She has her good and poor days. This week, I am the hero.”

  Winston nodded, no further words needed. Opal Grey held a flair for the dramatic, swinging from lovesick and doting hen to ill-treated and maligned wife with the shifting breeze. Albert led his accomplice from his study, returning to the parlor. Mrs. Dorcas Platte glanced up, her eyes bright with question.

  “Mrs. Grey just rang for tea. Did your business go well?”

  “Quite well, Mrs. Platte,” her husband replied, patting her hand reassuringly. “Mr. Grey and I have decided to pursue pheasants for the morning's remainder, my dear.”

  “Splendid,” she rejoined, high in spirits at the settling of that issue.

  The gentlemen vanished, leaving the women to enjoy tea in the well-furnished, feminine space. Muted blues and creams washed the room with color, a welcome bit of cheer to combat the gloomy and overcast skies of late fall. It would rain again today.

  An aproned woman appeared with the tea cart. “Will that be all, mum?”

  “Yes, Adeline. Thank you,” Opal Grey replied kindly.

  The woman curtsied and skittered about her business. Waiting a moment so as not to appear over ravenous, Mrs. Grey began to pour and conversation once again flowed between the longtime friends.

  “I do not understand my Evangeline. Really, I do not! She all but refuses to marry. Mr. Grey has taken to threatening.” Opal busily added sugar cubes and lemon to the saucer, knowing her friend's preferences well. “It cannot be good for his health the way that child taxes him. I'm certain I'd never bear up.”

  “Evangeline hasn't encountered the right gentleman. Do not fret, Mrs. Grey,” Dorcas Platte prophesied, the advantage of foreknowledge undisclosed. “Evangeline soon will.”

  Little convinced, Mrs. Grey replied, “Let us hope you are correct, Mrs. Platte. Evangeline is near two-and-twenty! Already there is talk. My Melody made a match at eighteen, a good one, too!” Pausing for dramatic effect, Opal Grey tapped her spoon against the teacup's rim before going on. “And now that her mourning is ended, Melody will make another, equally splendid match.”

  Mrs. Platte listened. A mother needed to boast a little, and Melody was a daughter easily praised. As Mrs. Grey chattered on, Dorcas' thoughts centered on the other daughter, Evangeline. So serious the young thing was. Always helpful. Eager to do a kindness to others. Childless to her her great sorrow, Dorcas indulged the idea that had she been blessed with a daughter the girl would be like Evangeline Grey. Well spoken and sensible, Evangeline carried herself with quiet confidence. Any mother would be proud to call her a daughter. For the most part. Her reluctance to marry was the one problem - one soon to be remedied, Dorcas mused. But Opal Grey recognized only an unmarried daughter passing the age to make a good match.

  “Certainly you are right, Mrs. Grey. Melody will be offered for within a year.”

  “Such a comfort you are to me! My spirits will revive when I see that happy event come to pass.”

  Conversation shifted to their charity work, the women wiling away the time in the warmth of the Grey parlor.

  * * *

  Guests mingled in the spacious hall, all commenting on the hospitality of Mr. and Mrs. Dalton Castille. Olivia Castille wielded her husband's influence and wealth shamelessly for her causes. Dalton Castille took no notice, or didn't mind, Thomas keenly observed.

  Scanning the attendees Thomas relaxed, Mrs. Augusta Preston's absence a relief. Augusta was not a woman easily rid of. A widow possessing sufficient wealth and great beauty, he'd thought to enjoy a summer dalliance with her. Mrs. Preston was fishing for a more permanent arrangement, and that meant it was time to end their acquaintance. Not easily accomplished, as Thomas had hoped. No guilt threatened his serenity; his expectations and boundaries had been – always were – made clear from the beginning: a discreet, yet decadent affair replete with passion and pleasure, but without ties. No I-love-you's but sinful sweet nothings. That was Thomas' philosophy. He treated his women well and ended his affairs amiably, most often with a luxurious gift offered in appreciation for those feminine wiles he so enjoyed.

  “There you are,” the familiar voice greeted jovially. “I had every confidence it would never be obsessive Mrs. Preston that cowled the infamous Thomas Masterson. My faith is warranted.”

  Thomas quirked a grin, folding his arms across his chest imperially. “Never that woman, Jonathan. My God!” He abandoned his stance. “Here comes my uncle. We'll have to put all talk of the crazed Mrs. Preston aside.” Turning and bowing slightly, Thomas addressed his Uncle Winston. “Good evening.”

  “It certainly is, Thomas. Your Aunt Dorcas will be delighted to see you. And good evening to you, Mr. Lane.”

  Jonathan Lane smiled at Winston. “Thank you, sir.”

  “I suppose two spendthrifts like yourselves won't mind making a small donation tonight.” Winston winked at the pair. “Mrs. Castille will be most pleased.”

  “I wouldn't dream of disappointing the dear Mrs. Castille. Of course I'll support her cause. What is it this season, Uncle Winston?”

  Mr. Platte suppressed a laugh. “Clothing the tenant farmers' children, Thomas, a worthy endeavor. It will do you good to help those in need rather than...” He did not complete his thought aloud.

  Thomas' grin widened. “Quite right.”

  “Your Aunt Dorcas will be hunting me sure as rain. Make certain you...”

  “I will lavish her with a nephew's love,” Thomas assured.

  Winston smiled endearingly at his only nephew, more like a son since his wife's brother had passed. “Mrs. Platte will beam.”

  His uncle strode into the crowd, and Thomas turned to Jonathan. “My aunt will be expecting your attentions also. The woman holds an inexplicable fondness for you.” Receiving no reply, Thomas tracked the angle of his friend's gaze. “Ah, an enchantment,” he stated dryly, clapping Jonathan's shoulder.

&nbs
p; “What was that you were saying?” Jonathan uttered, still distracted by the auburn haired beauty making her way through the hall.

  “That, my friend, is Mrs. Melody Brentwood. A vision, is she not?”

  “Indeed!” Jonathan admired aloud. Regaining composure, his brow furrowed. “Did you say Mrs. Brentwood? A happily married Mrs. Brentwood? Say it isn't so!”

  Thomas chuckled. “If you must know...”

  “You've not … engaged her company, have you?” The fervent hope of a negative response carried plain in his friend's expression.

  “I have not had the pleasure, no. The widow Brentwood is the younger daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Albert Grey, dear friends of my aunt and uncle.”

  “A widow,” Jonathan nearly whistled. “There is a God after all. No offense, Thomas, to the departed Mr. Brentwood.” He cast a serious glance at Thomas.

  “None taken,” Thomas replied. “Would you care for an introduction?” He knew well the answer. Gesturing forward, Thomas Stanton Masterson led the way, unaware that he strolled willingly, naturally toward the very meeting his aunt and uncle were scheming to contrive.

  Dorcas Platte patted her husband's arm in rapid little slaps. “Mr. Platte,” she whispered, disbelief prompting her adopt a discrete voice. “He's headed right for them.”

  Winston heaved a sigh of gratitude. “You see there, Mrs. Platte? I assured you all would fall into place. You'll see. Have faith, good woman. Have faith.”

  Mrs. Platte hid her smile behind her gloved hand. “Of course, dear. You always are right,” she declared, bolstering her husband's ego. So proud of his plan he was; so proud of him, she was. Muttering her prayer quietly, Dorcas Platte dared ask further assistance to her husband's ruse.

  It is for a good cause, Lord.

  * * *

  “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Lane,” Opal Grey offered. “And of course, it is always nice to see you, Mr. Masterson. You remember my daughters, Mrs. Melody Brentwood,” she paused, casting a side long glance at Mr. Lane, “unfortunately widowed. And Miss Evangeline Grey.”

  Jonathan exchanged pleasantries with mother and auburn haired daughter, leaving Thomas directly under the steady gaze of Miss Grey. The very steady gaze.

  “It has been quite some time, Miss Grey,” Thomas addressed her, ending the silent standoff. “I trust you are well.”

  Those brown eyes regarded him curiously a long moment.

  “Quite,” she made her reply, adding nothing more.

  Thomas studied the plain Miss Grey, weighing how best to proceed. Ramrod straight spine, shoulders squared smartly, head high, the woman projected a confident air. At least most would aver such nonsense. Thomas called it uptight, inhibited. Intriguing perhaps.

  “Are you active in Mrs. Castille's bid to clothe the needy children?”

  Again, that assessing gaze pinned him to the fringes of awkwardness. Her eyes brightened ever so slightly then, the mention of the charity surely the thing which lit the spark.

  “Yes, I am. I do hope you will consider doing your part. Outfitting the farmers' children will greatly ease the burden on their families and make their work more bearable during the cold winter.”

  It was the most Thomas had heard her speak at once. Ever. Of course, a few years had passed since he'd last spoken with her.

  “Your hope is not in vain, Miss Grey. I shall aid your worthy cause just to please you.” Thomas flashed his most charming grin at the small creature before him, confident of receiving a flirtatious smile in return.

  Dash it all! No smile was forthcoming.

  “Mr. Masterson, think not of pleasing me nor any other. It is our duty to help others less fortunate than ourselves without thought of reward.”

  Plain Evangeline Grey did not make it easy to keep things lighthearted.

  “Yes. Of course you are correct,” he frowned slightly. “Now, if you will excuse me, Miss Grey, I must seek my aunt.”

  “Oh, certainly! Give my regards to Mrs. Platte.”

  Was that a relieved smile that kissed the corners of her mouth?

  “It was pleasant to speak with you, Mr. Masterson. Good evening.”

  With that, Miss Evangeline Grey turned to seek her sister, and Thomas found himself dismissed. How it had come about remained a muddle. Hadn't he, Thomas Masterson, just sought to escape what proved a tiresome conversation? Yet here he stood, staring after an empty spot, vacated without a backward glance or even a pause for him to make his reply.

  Dash it all! How unexpected.

  * * *

  Reverend Oakley greeted congregants at the back of the sacristy, and Evangeline waited beside her mother as parishioners inched toward the fellowship hall. A meal was to be shared this day. Scanning the line, Evangeline searched for Olivia Castille, eager to locate the woman.

  “Reverend Oakley, such an uplifting message!” her mother gushed.

  “Thank you kindly, Mrs. Grey. May I inquire after Mr. Grey?”

  “Mr. Grey is well. I spoke to him earlier about the walkway out front. Something simply must be done! Two others beside myself nearly twisted an extremity. With winter bearing close...” She paused to draw breath, leaving space for Evangeline to urge her along.

  “Thank you, Reverend Oakley.” Linking her arm in her mother's, she stepped, forcing her mother to do likewise. “I am certain Reverend Oakley will see to the walkway. We should offer to aid the older ladies in finding their tables.”

  Opal allowed Evangeline to move her, resting her free hand upon her daughter's forearm.

  “A wonderful suggestion! You see, Reverend, my daughter is most thoughtful and helpful. Any home would benefit under her care.”

  Evangeline's mortification tempted her to drag her mother from the scene, yet good sense prevailed. Blessedly. Willing her face betray no humiliation at her mother's unveiled parading of her person, as if hoisted upon the auction block, she evened her breathing and stayed her course. Frayed ends of her pride safely tucked away, Evangeline managed a smile when her sister, Melody, met her gaze, approaching to deter their mother from further speech.

  The sisters, along with Mrs. Castille, took their meal in lively conversation, sharing the joy of the previous night's success.

  “We've enough to procure an overcoat for each boy child and make a shawl for every girl,” Mrs. Castille announced proudly.

  “We must begin right away if we hope to finish in time for Christmas! How soon will the material be ready?” More than pleased, Evangeline calculated how many weeks remained for her to knit the two shawls.

  “Within the week, Miss Grey! I convinced the cloth shop to put back our supplies.” She clasped her hands together. “I just knew we'd raise enough!”

  “I never doubted either, Mrs. Castille,” Evangeline agreed earnestly.

  “There was certainly no lack of money in your hall last night. I wonder that we should dare accept the donations of certain guests.” Mrs. Verla Rhodes, ever the self-righteous martyr, snorted from across the great pine table. “Mr. Masterson and his companion flaunt their excess in plain sight, and all turn a blind eye because they open their coffers.”

  “Certainly there are rumors, Mrs. Rhodes, but one must not put stock in gossip.” Evangeline's steady tone conveyed not censure, but plain reasoning.

  Unperturbed, Verla continued, reporting the activities of many and sharing snippets of conversations she'd managed to overhear.

  Such a silly woman!

  Evangeline wanted to steer discussion back to their winter project.

  “The important thing is that we gained the funds to help,” she reminded.

  “Of course, Miss Grey, you would say that just now – before I make mention of your own private conversation with Mr. Thomas Masterson! And right afterward, that gentleman made a generous donation. Or so I heard.” Verla raised an eyebrow and all eyes landed on Evangeline.

  Evangeline counted herself speechless. Truly for-the-first-time-in-her-life speechless, not the self-imposed quiet often ad
opted when she knew better than to voice her opinions. Fellow ladies tittered then, the moment passing as no more than a joke. Thank goodness! No one with an ounce of good sense would entertain the notion that a rake like Thomas Masterson would pay her any special attention. Of all the ridiculous fiddle-faddle! Evangeline's throat tightened uncomfortably. It was true; she held no particular skill at judging these matters. There had been that unfortunate Mr. Davenport mishap, part of the reason she guarded herself so well.

  No. She'd been exceedingly cautious since that day. Evangeline colored at the recollection.

  Outside her father's study, she realized her misunderstanding at hearing Mr. Davenport's offer for Melody, her sister. A bit off kilter - after all, they had shared the most interesting and lively conversations – Evangeline recovered herself with fair ease. Melody was such a beautiful creature! But what transpired next affected her profoundly.

  “Blaine, I must admit surprise. I thought you were aware. Mr. Brentwood offered already for Melody. In any case, I dare say I expected your offer, but thought your interest centered on my Evangeline.”

  “Evangeline, sir?” the young man choked out. “Please...understand...I, er, I ...”

  The man's face must indeed be reddened with all that uncomfortable stammering, Evangeline thought. Her father's next words clarified exactly why the discomfiture was present, tightening the skin on her scalp in awful awareness.

  “Say no more, Mr. Davenport. I understand well enough. My boy, it's not a woman's beauty makes a man happy, but a good and reliable companion. Remember that; it will serve you well. But, enough of this talk. We will have none of this unhappy business getting back to my Evangeline.”

  “Certainly not, sir!” Blaine Davenport concurred.

  Alone in the hallway, Evangeline swallowed the unfamiliar lump in her throat and pressed her icy hands against her burning cheeks. She'd always been aware she was in the shadow of Melody's beauty; this was the first time she'd felt eclipsed totally by it. Her own father understood without Mr. Davenport having to explain!