Christine Johnson - The Matrimony Plan

Eugenia Kensington’s stained red lips pursed so tightly that they looked like the tied-off end of a balloon. Felicity blushed madly. Gabriel folded his hands and closed his eyes in grateful prayer.

He was seated beside Felicity.

If Felicity had known Gabriel Meeks was the extra guest, she would have placed him as far away as possible, certainly not in the chair beside her. Every step toward the table was torture. Robert was on her right, and Gabriel was on her left. How could she bear it?

Robert pulled out her chair, and though she glued her attention on him, she felt Gabriel’s presence. His clean cotton scent rivaled Robert’s perfumed hair treatment. She sensed when Gabriel lifted the water glass to his lips, when he put the napkin on his lap, when he picked up his fork. She felt it all with the combined excitement and dread of waiting for her first dance. Would he try to talk to her? Did he feel anything for her? Would he tell Mother that she’d swooned? Worst of all, was he here to press his suit?

The cook placed steaming Chesapeake clams on the table, and Felicity’s stomach turned.

“Let me serve you, Ms. Felicity.” Robert proceeded to fill her plate with shells.

She stared at the clams, not daring to touch them lest she lose the contents of her stomach.

“Had them shipped fresh from the Bay,” Daddy bragged.

“I prefer Littlenecks myself.” Robert grinned round at the whole table. “We dig’em up on the Island every summer.” He smiled directly at her, the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes betraying his age. He had to be at least thirty-five. “You’d like it there.”

The hint should have made her heart dance, but Gabriel ruined that opportunity with a volley from her left. “I thought you summered in Newport, Mr. Blevins.”

Felicity picked at the clams. Gabriel was trying to trip up Robert. She could guess why, but it didn’t make her any more comfortable.

Robert laughed. “True, true, but we visit friends on Long Island from time to time. Need to keep in touch and all.”

Daddy seconded that, defusing the crisis. Felicity took a deep breath, but she still couldn’t stomach the clams. She pushed her plate away.

“Not hungry?” Robert asked.

She nodded, and he scooped her clams onto his plate.

“Clams don’t settle well for me either,” Beatrice said.

Felicity could have blessed her for that but not the next comment that came out of her mouth.

“Do you have a beau, Pastor?”

Felicity choked and coughed into her napkin.

Gabriel handed her a glass of water. “Are you all right?”

She was definitely not, but she nodded and sipped the water to calm her throat.

Then to her dismay, he proceeded to answer Beatrice. “No, Mrs. Kensington. Not yet, that is.”

Beatrice smiled. “If I can do anything to help.”

Help? Felicity glared at her sister-in-law.

“No, thank you,” Gabriel said hastily. “If you don’t mind, this is something I’d rather do on my own.”

“Ah,” murmured Beatrice, prolonging the conversation unnecessarily. “Then you have someone in mind?”

Felicity intensified her glare, and Beatrice smiled. Gabriel had paused, but Felicity didn’t dare look at him. She held her breath and waited excruciating seconds until he answered.

“Not yet.”

She breathed out with a whoosh. Thank goodness. He didn’t feel the same way she did. Her peculiar attraction was nothing more than a physical reaction based on the chance occurrence of thinking he was someone else. Once she got to know Robert, this unnatural feeling for Gabriel would vanish.

“But I do have an idea what I want in a wife,” Gabriel added, sending Felicity back to her napkin.

Mother’s eyebrows rose, and Daddy roared. “That’s the way to do it, son. Know what you want and go after it.”

“This is hardly a hunt, Branford,” Mother chided. “We’re talking about marriage.”

“And romance.” Beatrice smiled at Felicity. “Every woman longs for romance.”

Perhaps, but Felicity couldn’t afford it. She had to marry this summer before that horrid art school begins. “I’ve always believed a match is best made between two social equals with like minds.” She glanced at Robert to make her point perfectly clear. “Love can grow from there.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Beatrice conceded. “I didn’t always love Blake the way I do now. When we were young, I found him a bit of a rascal.”

“I was.” Blake laughed.

“Most boys are,” Gabriel said. “From what my sister says, I was, too. You ladies are right that love can grow over time.

It’s gentle and kind, two things we men are not too good at in our youth.”

“Gentle?” Robert snickered. “Very pastorly of you, Reverend, but in my experience, love is passionate and wild.” He gazed at Felicity. “It throws caution to the wind.”

Her pulse raced but not in an entirely pleasant way. His words should have thrilled, but a shiver of unease made her look away. She shook it off. He was merely telling her that he was interested—exactly what she wanted.

“Speaking of the wind,” Daddy said, “Blake tells me Hunter has some ideas on runway direction that contradict what you have on the blueprints.”

As the beef Wellington was served, Daddy, Blake and Mr. Blevins descended into talk about the airfield project. Felicity swallowed her disappointment. If only Daddy hadn’t changed the subject, Robert would have asked to see her again. She pulled the pastry off the beef and absently swirled it in gravy.

“I hear you’ve been accepted at a prestigious art college,” Beatrice suddenly said.

Felicity started. Why was Beatrice stirring up trouble tonight? On most occasions, she barely said a word.

Gabriel set down his fork. Was he going to tell everyone about their encounter this afternoon? She felt that awful heat wash over her again.

“Yes,” she said hastily, “an art academy.”

“The National Academy of Design to be precise,” Mother said haughtily. She leaned ever so slightly toward Gabriel. “That’s the finest art school in New York.”

Felicity blushed wildly. Gabriel knew that. “Mother,” she hissed.

“Well, it is.”

“And one of the finest in the country,” Gabriel said.

Once Mother got over the initial shock that he knew about art academies, she looked pleased. “See, Felicity. I told you that everyone has heard of the National Academy.”

Felicity squirmed. How could Mother slight Gabriel like that? He might be poor, but he wasn’t ignorant.

To his credit, Gabriel fielded the derogatory comment with grace. “You’re probably right, Mrs. Kensington.” Then he ruined everything. “Ms. Kensington, your sketches are very well done. That still life of the rose is particularly good.”

Felicity didn’t have to follow his gaze to know he meant Mother’s sketch hanging on the opposite wall. “It’s not mine,” she said stiffly.

“It might as well be,” Mother said with a wave of the hand. “Felicity’s work is charming.”

She would lie to a minister? That was practically like lying to God. “No it’s not,” Felicity said in a moment of contrariness. “I can’t draw a thing.”

“Felicity,” Mother hissed.

“I’m sure that’s not true,” Beatrice graciously said. “You did a lovely sketch of a horse when we were in school.”

Mother did it. Mother always did Felicity’s sketches. Either the teachers didn’t know or they looked the other way.

“That’s why my Felicity is the perfect chairwoman of the Beautification Committee,” Mother stated, deftly turning the conversation in a new direction.

“Beautification Committee?” Gabriel asked.

Beatrice raised guileless blue eyes. “The Beautification of the Sanctuary Committee.”