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A Hero for Christmas
Jo Ann Brown


Jonathon Bradby would gladly return to fighting the French if it meant avoiding his new title: war hero. Only he knows the reputation isn’t deserved.Then a visit to Sanctuary Bay brings renewed acquaintance with the lovely Lady Catherine Meriweather. He’s drawn to her, yet Cat surely deserves a real hero. Overwhelmed with organizing a Yuletide celebration and her sister’s wedding, Cat gladly accepts Jonathan’s help. Soon she sees the gentle heart he conceals beneath his wit. But Jonathan’s need to prove himself could drive them apart—unless they’re bold enough to seize the unexpected gift of love.







To Heal the Soldier’s Heart

Jonathon Bradby would gladly return to fighting the French if it meant avoiding his new title: war hero. Only he knows the reputation isn’t deserved. Then a visit to Sanctuary Bay brings renewed acquaintance with the lovely Lady Catherine Meriweather. He’s drawn to her, yet Cat surely deserves a real hero.

Overwhelmed with organizing a Yuletide celebration and her sister’s wedding, Cat gladly accepts Jonathan’s help. Soon she sees the gentle heart he conceals beneath his wit. But Jonathan’s need to prove himself could drive them apart—unless they’re bold enough to seize the unexpected gift of love.

Sanctuary Bay: Where three war heroes find the healing power of love


“Jonathan!” she called.

He paused, surprising Catherine, because she had been unsure if he would. “Yes?”

“You forgot this.” She walked around him and then faced him as she held out his coat.

“Thank you.” He bit off each word but took his coat, draping it over his arm.

“And thank you for what you did down in the kitchen.”

“No need.” He looked at a point over her head. “It doesn’t take a hero to put out a grease fire with salt.”

“I didn’t say anything about you being a hero. I simply thanked you for keeping it from spreading.” She folded her arms in front of her and gazed up at him. “Why is it so important to be a hero again? Haven’t you proven your courage by saving Charles?”

“You don’t understand.” He moved to go pass her.

She stepped in front of him again. “How can I understand when you don’t explain?”

“Ask anything you want of me. Just not that.”


JO ANN BROWN

has published more than one hundred titles under a variety of pen names since selling her first book in 1987. A former military officer, she enjoys telling stories, taking pictures and traveling. She has taught creative writing for more than twenty years and is always excited when one of her students sells a project. She has been married for more than thirty years and has three children and two spoiled cats. Currently she lives in Nevada. Her books have been translated into almost a dozen languages and sold on every continent except Antarctica. She enjoys hearing from her readers. Drop her a note at www.joannbrownbooks.com (http://www.joannbrownbooks.com).


A Hero for Christmas

Jo Ann Brown






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


I sought the Lord, and he answered me, and delivered me from my fears.

—Psalms 34:4


For Patrick, who has brought such a new happy melody to our family


Contents

Chapter One (#u32eefd2f-bc63-5c19-b4ef-959d18c9e560)

Chapter Two (#ud235cfa0-d8f3-51cd-8347-c0fb3bcf4e27)

Chapter Three (#u087a6090-bfae-5014-a3ce-2b665e36d7ff)

Chapter Four (#ua94677a4-b407-5387-86c0-addf0de47535)

Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)

Dear Reader (#litres_trial_promo)

Questions for Discussion (#litres_trial_promo)

Excerpt (#litres_trial_promo)


Chapter One

Meriweather Hall, Sanctuary Bay, North Yorkshire

November 1816

Shouts came from the entrance hall. Loud shouts. Startled shouts. What was going on?

Catherine Meriweather rushed toward the front of the house. She should be asking: What else was going on? Her cousin Edmund, who had inherited the title of Lord Meriweather from her late father, had let their neighbor Sir Nigel Tresting persuade him that it would be fitting for the new baron to reinstate the old tradition of a Christmas Eve masquerade ball. But why hold it this year when her sister Sophia was getting married just before Christmas? The last Christmas Eve ball at Meriweather Hall had been years before Catherine was born. However, Cousin Edmund had bought the idea completely.

And then promptly handed the planning over to the Meriweather women. Her older sister, Sophia, was busy with her wedding gown, and their mother had gone to York to visit her sister who was recovering from a broken leg. That left Catherine with the responsibility for the assembly, which made no sense. She was the one who often overlooked details, the one who never managed to get anything organized the right way, the one with her head firmly in the clouds...the one whose faith had grown weak, so she did not have God to turn to when she felt overwhelmed. That was most of the time now; yet to leave the matters in Cousin Edmund’s hands would be a disaster, because he could not make the simplest decision.

But what was happening in the entrance hall?

“Get him!” That shout rang through the corridor, and she walked a bit faster.

Other voices came quickly. “I got him! No! He got away from me!”

“Grab him! Don’t let him get behind you.”

“He bit me!”

Gathering her skirt in her hand, she ran toward the commotion. Men stood in the doorway, shouting and pointing and jostling. They paid her no mind when she asked them to let her by. She gritted her teeth, stuck out her elbow and pushed her way past them.

“What is going on?” she asked.

A large dark blur raced toward her.

“No, you don’t!” A hand reached out and grabbed at the blur. As it slowed, she realized it was a gangly black-and-white puppy.

Then she looked at the man keeping the puppy from jumping on her, and she gasped in astonishment. Jonathan Bradby was the tallest man in the entrance hall, even taller than Ogden, their butler. His ruddy hair had been blown every which way by the wind, and snow was melting on the shoulders of his dark greatcoat.

And he was the last man she had expected to see at Meriweather Hall today. Mr. Bradby had written in response to the note she had sent him, inviting him to Sanctuary Bay, that he was not able to come for either the wedding or the Christmas Eve ball. He had explained that his work as a solicitor prevented him from leaving Norwich, even for the wedding of one of his best friends. Catherine’s sister and her fiancé had been disappointed, and so had Catherine. Mr. Bradby’s jests during his previous visit had eased the pain in her heart whenever she thought of her late father or of her dear Roland who had died so far from home during the war.

“Mr. Bradby! What are you doing here?” she asked before she could halt herself.

“At the moment, I am trying to get this horse disguised as a pup under control.” He looked toward Foggin, the blond-haired footman. “How badly did he bite you?”

Foggin flushed. “It is nothing. His teeth grazed my hand. He never bit down.”

The black-and-white pup pulled away from Mr. Bradby and lunged again at Catherine, yelping in excitement. She sidestepped the ungainly dog before he could jump on her, and then cupped his head to hold him gently in place. He slobbered a kiss on her cheek.

“And who are you?” she asked as she wiped her face.

“An intruder,” Mr. Bradby replied. “I would make mention of what the cat dragged in, but I daresay, it was the dog that dragged me in here from the courtyard.”

Chuckling at his jest, she said, “I thought— That is, we thought you were not coming.”

“I changed my mind when your cousin asked me to come here to advise him on some papers he intends to sign. As I was coming here anyhow, I thought I might as well attend the wedding. I know the banns have not yet been read, but I thought I should take advantage of more clement weather for my journey. As you can see, that did not go according to plan.” He shrugged, and melting snow fell off his greatcoat. He pulled it off to reveal that he was dressed conservatively...for him. His coat and breeches were a somber black, but his waistcoat was an eye-scorching yellow with red-and-green embroidery.

“I know the feeling too well.” Her laughter faded as her memory spewed forth the day Roland Utting and she had last made plans for their future. He had asked her to wait for him and told her that they would marry when he came back from the war against the French and the Americans. That had not gone as they had planned, because, though she had waited, he had never come back, dying in distant America.

“I am dripping on your floors,” Mr. Bradby said, forcing away the image of the day when she had believed that God truly wanted her to be happy. “Are the rooms I used before available for me?”

Instead of answering him, she asked, “Who is this big guy?” She patted the puppy between his floppy ears as the footmen and Ogden returned to their duties. The pup rolled onto his back so she could rub his damp belly.

“A stowaway in my carriage.”

She bent to pet the puppy’s belly and cooed nonsense words, then asked, “A stowaway? I thought that was only for ships.”

“I have no other idea how to describe him. He crawled into my carriage after I had stopped at a coaching inn one night. When I went back, the owner told me that the pup was now my problem. I think the innkeeper was glad for an excuse not to feed him any longer. I stopped at a couple of villages along the way to see if someone wanted a puppy. No one wanted one this big, so he has traveled with me.”

“What did you name him?”

“I just call him pup. He seems to like it.”

Straightening, she smiled. “Because he knows no better. Don’t you think he deserves a name of his own?”

“So far he has chewed one of my boots and two of my socks and swallowed a button that he threw up on my best waistcoat.” His tone was grim, but his pale blue eyes twinkled with amusement. “He has left hair on the seat of my carriage and relieved himself on its wheels. I am not sure he deserves a name of his own.” Despite his complaints, Mr. Bradby tethered himself to the dog with a leash.

Catherine squatted to pat the puppy again. “We shall have to see what name suits him.” She stood. “Shall we talk in a warmer part of the house?”

“Of course.” He motioned with the hand holding the leash for her to lead the way.

She took a single step before her heel caught on the rough edge of a tile. He grabbed her arm, and his other arm swept around her to keep her from falling. He held her up against his strong chest until she was steady on her feet; then he bent to pick up the leash he had dropped.

“Thank you, Mr. Bradby,” she said as she carefully drew herself away from him without looking in his direction.

“I am glad to have been of service. So tell me, how are the wedding plans coming?”

“As well as one can possibly hope.” That was not quite the truth, but she was not going to lay all her worries at Mr. Bradby’s feet.

“Your cousin tells me that you will be going to London for the opening of Parliament. You must be excited.”

She glanced at him, then quickly away. What would he think if she told him that she had a single reason to go to London? She planned to visit the new exhibit at the British Museum of the sculptured panels that once had graced the Parthenon in Athens. The Elgin Marbles, as they were commonly called. She was going to see them, not just for herself, but for Roland who never had the chance.

Dear Roland, the only man who ever understood her love for art and did not consider it worthless. The only man whom she had ever trusted with her heart. She blinked back tears. The two years since his death in battle had not lessened how much she missed Roland.

Instead of answering Mr. Bradby, she ruffled the pup’s fur.

His tail wagged so hard it almost became invisible as he looked up at Cat with adoration.

“What do you say, pup,” she asked, “if I take you to the kitchen and see what scraps Mrs. Porter has? You can chew on a bone by the fire tonight.”

Mr. Bradby shook his head. “You don’t need to impose on your cook. He can sleep in the stables with the horses. After all, he is about the same size.”

“He may be big, but he is a puppy. It will be very cold outside tonight, and he will be far more comfortable by the kitchen hearth.” She smiled at him. “Don’t try to change my mind on this.”

He grinned back. “Thanks for the warning, Miss Catherine, but to own the truth, I suspect that your cook will soon be begging you to send him to the stables.”

“Why?

“He snores. Loudly.”

Catherine laughed as they and the pup walked along the corridor toward the kitchen stairs. It was good to have Mr. Bradby’s sense of humor back under their roof. She was sure to need it in the coming days.

* * *

Why was he here?

As Jonathan Bradby strode toward the grand staircase at the front of Meriweather Hall, he reminded himself that he could have ignored the request from Edmund Herriott. He could have remained in his comfortable home in Norwich, where he could admire the cathedral’s spire from his office window. Instead, he had driven north along the coast to Meriweather Hall. The estate had been inherited by Herriott—no, he needed to think of him as Meriweather now that he had claimed his title—upon the death of his distant cousin...Miss Catherine’s father.

Jonathan had, if he were honest with himself, looked forward to seeing Miss Catherine again. When he had visited the baronial estate two months ago, she had always laughed at his jests rather than looking at him with pity, as others did, when he acted silly.

Acted...

He ground his teeth as his jaw worked. Was he becoming just like the rest of his family? Their lives were one continuous illusion. His siblings played roles, changing like chameleons to attract an admirer with both title and wealth, as they took advantage of the social whirl. Creating such a persona was a skill they had learned from an early age, when their parents had chosen to live separate lives but maintain the image of the perfect family.

Now he had become like them, pretending that a lie was the truth. Everyone believed he was a hero who had saved his best friend’s life on the battlefield. If he had spoken up the first time someone had lauded him for saving Northbridge, he would not have to be living now with the abhorrent lie. But he had not admitted that he had stumbled and slammed into the French soldier. It had been enough to keep the Frenchman’s sword from slicing off Northbridge’s head, leaving his friend only with a scar where the blade had glanced off his cheek.

But that did not make Jonathan a hero. It made him a clumsy oaf, as his father had called him so often, when Jonathan was struggling to get used to growth spurts that had him sprouting up two or more inches seemingly overnight.

He should have told the truth from the beginning. Now it was too late, and he had become the very thing he despised. An illusion that everyone accepted as the truth. He had no idea what his friends would think of him, if they discovered the truth now, but he also did not know how much longer he could live what both he and God knew was a lie. He often wondered if God had let him leave the battlefield alive in order to right the mistake he had made. If so, he was letting God down a second time.

“Bother!” came Miss Catherine’s voice through an open doorway just in front of him. “You didn’t do that, did you? I cannot believe this!”

Jonathan waited to hear a reply, but there was none. Curiosity drew him to the door that was flanked by suits of armor. He looked in to see a fire dancing on the white marble hearth. Carved with vines and birds and lush grapes, it was too ornate for his taste. Books covered every shelf in the bookcases that lined the other walls, and more were piled on the floor and on the overstuffed chairs.

Cat stood by a rosewood desk covered with stacks of papers, her fists clenched on one pile. Cat. He had not thought of Catherine’s childhood nickname since he had left Meriweather Hall, but it suited her. She was small, at least a foot shorter than his six-foot-four height, and her black hair was as sleek as a cat’s fur. Instead of green eyes, she had earth-brown ones. Yet they sparked like a cat’s when her emotions were high, as they were now.

“Is everything all right?” he asked from the doorway.

She whirled, her eyes wide.

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” he said.

“I was lost in thought.” Her voice was filled with frustration. “I was doing some work for the Christmas Eve ball.”

He stepped into the room. “And it sounds as if there is a problem.”

“It would appear that Cousin Edmund forgot that he had asked me to send out invitations to the wedding and the assembly. I spent hours on them. If I had not had Vera’s help, I doubt I could have gotten them done on time.”

He nodded, recalling that Vera Fenwick, the vicar’s sister, was Cat’s bosom-bow. “I see.”

“No, you don’t.” She pushed away from the desk and leaned her fists on the back of one of the chairs. “I am receiving replies from invitations that I did not send, people telling me that they are delighted to attend. All I can figure is that, after asking me to handle the invitations, Cousin Edmund went ahead and invited more people without telling me.”

Jonathan tried to quell the smile that tickled his lips.

She must have noticed his efforts because she grimaced. “I know it sounds petty, but I had everything planned out. And now...”

“Now you have to make a change in plans.”

“Yes, and that is far less simple than it sounds.”

“Poor Meriweather,” he said. “He cannot make up his mind whom to invite, so he invited everyone.”

Cat’s shoulders eased from their rigid line. “I didn’t think of it that way. Oh, dear! What a muddle this has become! To say something to him would be cruel, so I will endeavor to make the adjustments without bothering him.” She sighed. “I hope he will not regret avoiding that decision when the rest of our guests start to arrive, and we don’t have enough room for everyone.” She glanced toward the window. “Although if it keeps snowing like this, I wonder who will come.”

“You sound hopeful.”

Catherine smiled at his jesting tone. “I didn’t intend it that way. I want everything to be perfect for Sophia and Charles.”

He chuckled. “Would you like some advice I received from a very wise man?”

“I can use all the advice I can get.” She sat on the chair and tilted her head back to look up at him.

Sitting in the chair that faced hers, Jonathan said, “A very wise man told me that nothing goes smoothly, but if the other party never sees the mistake, because you have remedied it, then the mistake never happened. At least in the other’s mind.”

“Who told you that?”

“Mr. Lippincott, the man I read the law with.” He leaned toward her, putting his hands on his thighs, so her nose and his were an inch apart. His voice dropped to a rumbling whisper. “He gave me that counsel when I first began to work on my own. I was so afraid of making an error, I could do nothing. Once I took his words to heart, I found it much simpler.”

“That is good advice.” Her voice was uneven as she slanted away from him. “I will try to remember it, but I just want everything to be perfect.”

He was astonished. He could not imagine any of his six siblings going to such lengths to help someone else. They had been derisive both when he had decided to study law and when he had bought his commission to serve in the army. That he had come home as a hero had silenced them somewhat.

If they knew the truth...

He pushed that thought aside and affixed a smile on his lips again. “Good, and never forget that, if the burden becomes too much to bear, you need not shoulder everything alone.”

“I know. The household staff—”

He shook his head. “I was speaking of handing the problem over to God. With His help, there is nothing you cannot accomplish.”

Cat looked down at her hands in her lap. They were clenched so tightly that her knuckles were white.

What had he said to distress her so? He waited for her to answer or to look at him. An icy chill flowed through him. Maybe he should offer to leave so someone else might use his rooms. When he said as much, she shook her head.

“No, don’t even suggest that.” She raised her eyes, and he was almost staggered by the pain within them. Had he caused it? He prayed not. “I know Charles and Sophia would be hurt if you departed before their wedding,” she said.

“All right. I won’t say that again, but, for what it is worth, I will be glad to do what I can to help you deal with these complications. If I could organize a company of soldiers, I daresay I should be able to help organize a party.”

“Two, actually.”

He chuckled. “Of course, I may make a complete muddle of any task you give me.”

“You would do a fine job, but I cannot ask you. You are our guest.”

“Northbridge and your cousin are closer to me than my brothers, so I don’t consider myself a guest. More like family.” He almost gagged on the word. He thanked God that Northbridge and Meriweather were not like his real family.

He had to own that one of the reasons he did not want to leave Meriweather Hall now was that his family might decide to come from London to spend Christmas with him in Norwich. Within hours of their arrival, someone would get into a brangle with someone else, and any chance of a pleasant Christmas would be lost...as it had been since his boyhood, when his father and his mother had decided to live separate lives.

“In that case,” Cat said, her smile returning, “I am sure I will be able to find so much for you to do that you shall regret your generous offer. You must promise me that, if at any time you grow tired of the planning, you will let me know straightaway.”

“I shall, but I am glad to help with the ball and the wedding and the holiday planning.”

“And the upcoming London Season.”

His stomach tried to tie itself into a knot. “The Season? Are you planning to go to London for that as well as the opening of Parliament?”

“Yes. Cousin Edmund is arranging for a house for us, and Sophia and Charles will join us there. I hear one can go from one event to the next for weeks. It sounds quite exhausting. And the preparations?” She shook her head. “Hannibal got his elephants through the Alps with less trouble, but Sophia and Cousin Edmund assure me that all of it is necessary.”

Jonathan stopped listening as he recalled his younger sibling, the baby sister of the family, Gwendolyn, and her dearest friend, Augusta Williams, saying much the same thing before their first Season. He and Gwendolyn were the youngest children in their family with a gap of almost a decade between them and their other siblings. Growing up, they had been as thick as peas in their pods. She had introduced him to Augusta, and their duo became a trio. And, as he grew from boy to man, Jonathan had lost his heart to pretty blonde Augusta.

Then the two young women had been fired off into the Polite World in London. Two warmhearted, sweet young girls had altered before his eyes into a pair of coquettes who were happy only when they had several men dangling after them. His sister had married a viscount with plump pockets, pretending she would have chosen him even if he did not have a farthing. Jonathan might have believed that if he had not overheard her bragging to their older sisters about how her husband was buying her a house on Berkeley Square where she could host the best gatherings in London.

And Augusta... No, he would not think about the woman who had broken his heart in the weeks before he had bought his commission and headed for the Continent—with the intention of showing her that she was wrong to dismiss him as no longer worthy of her time or interest.

Would Cat be beguiled by the illusions and rich rewards of the ton as his sister and Augusta had been? As his whole family had been? He should warn Cat, but as he raised his gaze to her animated face, he wondered if he would be wasting his breath. He had to try. For her sake. She had treated him with kindness, both on his previous visit and now.

He started to speak but halted at the clump of boots. Later, he promised himself. Later he would try to warn her about the way the Beau Monde could change a person. But would she heed him? Neither Augusta nor Gwendolyn had, and his heart still ached from the loss.

Jonathan stood and smiled when Edmund Herriott, now properly addressed as Lord Meriweather, walked past the door, paused, then came in. Jonathan’s smile faded when he saw the dark gray circles under his shorter friend’s eyes and the lines that had not been gouged into his face the last time Jonathan had visited. Was Meriweather’s mantle of responsibilities as the new baron too much for him?

Then Meriweather grinned, and the anxiety vanished. He shook himself like a wet dog. Snow flew in every direction, and he pushed his tawny hair from his eyes as he came forward, his hand outstretched.

“Bradby! I see that you changed your mind and have come to join in the excitement. I thought if I offered you the right bait, you would bite.”

Jonathan did not let his smile waver when Cat’s eyes widened. Did she think that her cousin had used her as the bait to entice him to North Yorkshire? Or was she struggling to hold back her vexation with her cousin’s impetuous act of sending out his own invitations to everyone he knew?

“Dashed cold out there,” Meriweather continued as the two men shook hands, and Jonathan guessed he had not noticed his cousin’s reaction. “But at least it has stopped snowing.” He shrugged off his greatcoat, sending more flakes tumbling to the floor. “I left the carriage at Sir Nigel’s. Once the roads have cleared, he will send it over with one of his grooms. I wanted to get back as soon as possible.” With a laugh, he added, “You know how Sir Nigel can go on and on about absolutely nothing, especially when it comes to his paintings.”

Jonathan grimaced. He had met the baronet only once, but that had been more than enough. Sir Nigel styled himself a great artist and displayed his work as if some great Renaissance painter had created it. The truth was the art lacked any semblance of skill that Jonathan could perceive.

He put the baronet out of his mind when Cat stood and asked them to excuse her. She fired a quick glance in his direction, and he guessed she did not want him to say anything to her cousin about the invitations Meriweather had sent. Whether she wanted to speak to her cousin privately, or she realized that there was nothing that could be changed at this point, he would acquiesce. He gave her a nod, wondering if she saw it as she hurried out of the room.

Meriweather took one look at the pile of letters on the desk and motioned for Jonathan to follow him from the room. He mumbled something about the room was better fit for ladies than the two of them.

Once they were a ways down the corridor, Meriweather said, “I didn’t want to say anything in front of my cousin, but this time Sir Nigel did not prattle about his paintings.”

“Because you discussed the smugglers?” During his previous visit, the smugglers in Sanctuary Bay had trespassed on Meriweather Hall lands, and he knew Meriweather was as determined to put a halt to them as his predecessor had been. It appeared that Meriweather’s efforts had been as futile as those of the previous baron.

“We did talk about the smugglers. Some.” He shuddered. “But his real interest was talking about his great-niece. I think he said her name is Lillian. He seems to believe that she would be very eager to marry a baron who lives close to her great-uncle.”

In spite of his efforts not to, Jonathan laughed. “Some woman is always expecting you to marry her. First, the elder Miss Meriweather, whom everyone assumed you would marry after you inherited the title from her father.”

“Not everyone, because Northbridge won her heart.”

“True. However, there is now this unknown great-niece who has decided you would be a good husband. You have become, it would appear, quite the irresistible man.”

“’Tis no joking matter.”

“Quite to the contrary,” Jonathan said. “It is highly amusing when you are the focus of the matchmaking.”

“When I decide to marry, it will be my decision. No one else’s.”

“Not even the young lady’s?”

Meriweather let loose a loud laugh. “Ah, Bradby, I have missed you and your bizarre sense of humor. Come in here.”

He went into a chamber across from the dining room. The aroma of coffee wafted around them, but Jonathan paid it no mind as he looked at the center of the room.

An elegant billiards table claimed most of the space. The oak had been carved with the Meriweather family’s crest, and additional images from the moors and the sea. A cast iron rack holding the cues was set in one corner. The balls were scattered across the table’s top.

“I don’t remember this from my other visit,” Jonathan said.

“It was delivered last month.” Meriweather draped his coat over a chair by the hearth.

“When did you decide to order it?” He was careful not to put emphasis on decide because he did not want to upset his friend, but he could not imagine how Meriweather had chosen to order a billiards table when he could not make any decision.

With a sheepish smile, Meriweather said, “Actually it was ordered by my predecessor. No one knew about it until the table arrived. The craftsmen were very slow workers, but they did a fine job, don’t you think?”

Jonathan ran his hand along the smooth edge of the table. “I agree. Excellent work.” Looking across it to his friend, he asked, “So don’t you think it is time you tell me why you were so insistent that I come to Meriweather Hall?”

“I told you in the letter I sent. I could use your advice on certain matters to do with the estate and with my construction business.”

“And that could not wait until after Christmastide?”

His friend’s smile became a guilty one. “You have caught me out. You and Northbridge and I have been through so much together. I did not think we should abandon him on his way to the altar.”

“You sound as if he is about to meet the hangman.” He leaned against the billiards table. “I am surprised he didn’t marry your cousin Sophia before he left for his estate.”

“Sophia wished for her mother to be out of mourning, so she could attend the ceremony. Then there are all the plans the ladies like in order for everything to be as complicated as possible. Catherine is so focused on the events that the slightest problem or change can send her up to the boughs.”

Jonathan bit his tongue to keep from saying that Meriweather was one of the reasons Cat was stressed. Rather, he said, “I am sure the wedding and the ball will be successes. I have offered to do my bit to help Miss Cat—Catherine.”

“You are a braver man than I am, Bradby.” He slapped him on the back. “But we knew that already, didn’t we?”

Here it was. His chance to tell the truth. His chance to clear his conscience.

Again, as he had done too often, he hesitated. He should tell Meriweather the truth straightaway.

Unless...

He began to smile and nodded as his friend suggested a game of billiards. Going to the rack, he lifted out a cue. The solution was so simple that he was unsure why he had not considered it before.

He would never have to reveal the truth if he proved to everyone—and himself—that he deserved the title of hero. He hefted the cue and smiled.

After all, how hard could it be to become a true hero?


Chapter Two

The eaves outside Catherine’s bedroom windows dripped in a steady rhythm two days after the snow had stopped, and Mr. Bradby had returned to Meriweather Hall. The sun glittered on snow that had fallen from the trees and bushes. Puddles were forming on the garden paths, and she guessed by late afternoon that most of the snow would have melted.

She looked down at her shoes and then paused. Between the sloppy snow and the sand along the shore, she risked ruining anything she wore on her feet. She needed footwear that would not work as sponges, so she reached into her cupboard and pulled out a pair of old boots.

She pulled them on, and thereafter she went to the closest window and opened it. Cold air swept her breath away. She hastily shut the window. She had not realized it was so chilly. The dripping eaves had suggested it was much warmer.

She pushed away from the window. No matter. She would go ahead with her plans to visit the beach below the village farther north along Sanctuary Bay. If her bosom-bow, Vera, did not want to leave her cozy fire and join her, then Catherine would go on her own.

Buttoning on a heavy pelisse and wrapping a scarf around her neck, while taking care not to knock off her wool bonnet, she then grabbed a pair of thick gloves from her dressing table. She smiled when she opened the door and saw a small pail waiting by her door. Ogden had remembered that she liked to search the beach after a powerful storm.

Catherine swung the wooden bucket by its handle as she walked down the stairs. She half-expected the puppy to bound up the stairs as he did each time she came down. Glancing into the large parlor, she saw the huge black-and-white pup lying in front of the hearth. He looked up, wagged his tail a couple of times and then went back to sleep. That was a relief because she did not want the pup along today.

She heard the rattle of harnesses and wheels, and smiled again, knowing the carriage she had requested to be ready this morning would be waiting for her. If only the plans for the wedding and the Christmas Eve ball would go as smoothly...

No! She was going to have positive thoughts today. If she found what she sought on the shore, then that would be one task she could cross off her list.

Foggin was waiting by the door and opened it for her when she approached. She urged him to shut it quickly, because he already looked half-frozen.

The closed carriage was waiting in front of her, and she rushed toward it. Before she reached it, she heard her name called. She looked over her shoulder to see Mr. Bradby coming around the corner of the house. He was bundled up as much as she was, and she recognized him because of his height and his red hair which peeked around a scarf that was the brightest orange she had ever seen.

“I did not expect to see you outside on this blustery day,” he said when he was close enough, so he did not have to shout.

She was startled to have him address her. Since Cousin Edmund’s return, Mr. Bradby had spoken less than a dozen words to her. She had caught a glimpse of him turning in the opposite direction when their paths through Meriweather Hall were about to intersect. He and her cousin had not dined with the Meriweather women for the past evenings, offering polite excuses. When she came down for breakfast, if Mr. Bradby was at the table, he hurried to finish and left after saying a cheery “Good morning.” She had tried to guess what she had done to vex him, but nothing came to mind.

“Where are you bound?” she asked in lieu of a direct response.

He drew down his scarf so his face was visible. He gave her a smile that seemed to make the wind a smidgen less biting. “Just out to get some fresh air. I thought I might walk along the shore.”

“Vera Fenwick and I are going to the beach. I want to pick up some mermaid tears.”

“What?” His smile was replaced by puzzlement.

“That is what we call broken pieces of glass that wash up on the shore. The edges have been smoothed, so it reflects the light in a pretty way.” She caught her bonnet before the wind could pluck it off her head and quickly retied it under her chin. “The best time to find them is the first low tide after a storm. That is in about an hour or so. Would you like to join Vera and me?”

“It sounds like fun. However, I don’t want to encroach upon your outing.”

“Nonsense! The more eyes the better.” Maybe if she persuaded him to spend time with her, then she could ferret out why he had been avoiding her. “I have been collecting mermaid tears since Sophia and Charles announced their betrothal, but I need many more pieces to decorate the wedding breakfast tables.”

He grinned. “Like I said, that sounds like fun. I will help you search for your mermaid tears.” He glanced at the carriage. “Is Meriweather going somewhere again today?”

“I am using the carriage because the best place to find the glass is on the beach at the bottom of the village. We seldom find any pieces beneath the cliffs here. The currents wash all jetsam toward the village.”

A gust of wind silenced whatever Mr. Bradby might have answered. Instead, he reached a long arm past her to open the carriage door. He held out his other hand to assist her in.

She thanked him with a smile and placed her hand on his. Some sensation that had no name but was undeniably pleasurable shimmered up her arm, starting at the very spot her palm sat atop his. As he handed her up onto the first step, he edged closer. All his usual good humor vanished.

She should withdraw her hand from his, but she could not make her arm move. She could only stare into his eyes that were level with her own. For the first time, she noticed the navy ringing the pale blue. She had never seen eyes like his. And she had never before felt like she stood on the very edge of the cliff and could tumble over at any moment.

With that thought, Catherine jerked her hand away so quickly she almost fell off the carriage step. He looked at her in astonishment, but, gathering what was left of her composure, she climbed in and sat on the black velvet seat. She stared at her clasped fingers on her lap.

Why was she thinking such thoughts? Jonathan Bradby wore his Christian faith proudly and spoke of prayer with ease. When she had lamented about wanting everything perfect for Sophia and Charles, Jonathan had advised her to turn her problems over to God as if he did so all the time. She did not want to imagine how he would look at her if she admitted her own faith had faltered. And he was a warrior just as Roland had been. Even though England was now at peace, there were still rumbles of discontent on the Continent. Napoleon had been exiled to Saint Helena, ten thousand miles from Sanctuary Bay, but he had escaped banishment once. If he did again, the war might flair up anew, and any man who answered the call to battle might not come back.

Just as Roland had not.

She must guard her heart as closely as the king’s soldiers watched over Napoleon on that speck of an island in the South Atlantic. Risking it again for a soldier would be stupid. She could enjoy Mr. Bradby’s company and his jokes, but nothing more.

It was a good plan, and it allowed her to smile when he stepped into the carriage. He closed the door and gestured toward the empty space beside her.

“May I?” he asked as the coachee set the carriage in motion.

She nodded. Stick to your plan, she reminded herself.

“First,” she said, “we must stop for Vera, then go to the shore at the foot of the village.”

“Down that steep, steep, steep and twisting, twisting, twisting street?” He gave an emoted groan and stretched his arm along the back of the seat.

“It is not the going down that bothers most folks, though I would never suggest we take a carriage down that steep street. It is the walking back up.”

“Either way is bad. Whoever decided to put a village on the side of a curving cliff must have enjoyed seeing people suffer.”

Catherine laughed at his droll expression. His eyes twinkled when he smiled more broadly. As he continued to joke, she matched him jest for jest. Soon both of them were laughing so hard that Catherine had to wipe tears from the corners of her eyes before the chill wind froze them there.

The journey across the ridge and back toward the church near the top of the sea cliffs went so quickly that Catherine was astonished. Usually she was impatient during the ride that could take an hour or more. With Mr. Bradby entertaining her with witticisms, the time had rushed past.

The carriage slowed to a stop in front of the flint vicarage half-hidden behind the squat stone church. Small windows were set deep into the walls, and the wooden door was in the need of paint. Nothing near the shore could keep paint on for very long, because the salt on the wind scoured it off like pots being scrubbed in the scullery.

Mr. Bradby assisted Catherine out, but did not hold her hand any longer than propriety allowed.

Catherine knocked on the vicarage’s door, then wrapped her arms around herself as a gust of wind sifted through her coat and scarf. Maybe going to the beach today was not such a good idea. She hoped the high cliffs edging the bay would lessen the wind along the shore.

A curtain shifted in the nearby window, and Catherine saw her friend’s face. Moments later, the door opened.

“Come in, come in,” Vera called in her cheerful voice. “Mr. Bradby! I hadn’t heard that you had returned to Sanctuary Bay. Do watch your head.”

Catherine knew the warning was not for her. She was short enough so the low rafters in the vicarage’s ceiling presented no problem for her. Though her tall sister Sophia’s head just cleared them, Mr. Bradby had to duck. Even so, his shoulder bumped a hanging lamp, sending light and shadows ricocheting around the room. Comfortable, well-worn furniture along with stacks and stacks of books and papers were lit, then lost again to the shadows.

He reached out to steady the lamp and apologized. “Sorry.”

“Think nothing of it,” Vera said as she retrieved her coat. “I keep asking my brother to move it, but though his intentions are good, the needs of the parish always demand every moment of his time.”

“Vera,” Catherine said, “I would be glad to send someone to handle small tasks like that for you.”

“I know, but I never think of it until someone hits the lamp.”

“If you would like,” Mr. Bradby said, “I can move it for you. All I need is a hammer, if you have one.”

“I do.” Vera dimpled before she disappeared past a curtain hanging in a doorway. Even before it stopped rippling, she pushed back into the room. “Here you go.”

Mr. Bradby removed his gloves and stuffed them into his greatcoat’s pocket. He took the hammer in one hand as he lifted the lamp off its hook with the other. When he offered the lamp to Catherine, he jerked his fingers back as a spark jumped between them.

“Ouch!” they said at the same time.

He grinned. “Warn me next time before you decide to play flint to my steel, Miss Catherine.”

Warmth climbed her face. She hoped it was from the fire on the nearby hearth and not from a blush. She moved out of the way as Mr. Bradby made quick work of removing the hook that had held the lamp and then hammered it back into the spot over a pair of chairs that Vera pointed to. He held out his hand for the lamp, and Catherine gave it to him, taking care not to let his fingers graze hers again.

He smiled as he hung it, holding his hand under it until he was sure it was secure. “There. Better?”

“Mr. Bradby, you are clearly a man of many talents,” Vera gushed as she took the hammer and set it on the kitchen table beside a piece of paper with her brother’s name on it. Vera always let her brother know where she was going and when she expected to return.

He wove his fingers together and pressed them outward before bowing toward her. “I appreciate your commendation, Miss Fenwick.”

“Thank you so much for helping. You most definitely are a hero of the first color.”

Catherine saw a ruddy tint rising up the back of his neck. She had not guessed that Vera’s compliment would put him to the blush. Hoping to ease his discomfort, she hurried to say, “We should not delay any longer, if we want to find the mermaid tears before the tide starts coming back in.”

“An excellent idea,” Vera said.

“Ah, that steep hill.” Mr. Bradby’s grumble set them all to laughing.

Catherine’s eyes were caught by his, and she saw his gratitude in them. She was unsure why, but asking might be the most want-witted thing she could do.

* * *

Jonathan was pleased that the wind was not as vicious along the shore. It was blocked by the high cliffs and the houses clinging to the ess-shaped street that dropped down through the village. Waves thundered against the stones at the bottom of the street, and melting snow made rivulets down the cliffs to pool on the sand. The fishermen’s deep boats, which were called cobles, had been pulled out of the tide’s reach, their single rudder tilted up to keep it out of the water and sand. Fishing nets were draped over every surface, even hanging from the cliffs where the water from the beck oozed out where the small stream had been redirected under the houses.

He nodded toward the fishermen who were mending their nets and cleaning their boats. Gulls hopped around and soared overhead on the sea wind, waiting for any morsel of fish they could snatch. When one of the fishermen dunked a rag in the small stream of water emerging from under the nets and flowing into the sea, Jonathan wondered exactly where it ran beneath the village. He remembered learning on his last visit that the beck, which is what the locals called a stream, had been built over in order to allow for more houses in the crowded village. He also recalled the elder Miss Meriweather’s dismay at the thought of investigating the waterway, because it was rumored there was also a passage the smugglers used for moving their illegal wares.

“Don’t you find it curious,” he asked quietly, “that everyone knows there must be a tunnel near here but everybody acts as if it does not exist?”

Miss Fenwick clamped her lips closed as her gaze shifted to the fishermen.

Cat said only, “I do not have to see something to know it is there.”

“So you do believe the smugglers have access under the village?” he asked in a near whisper.

She put her finger to her lips. “Don’t speak of that here. Too many ears could be listening.” She glanced toward the fishermen and then at the houses rising above them on the cliff.

Jonathan had no idea which houses in the village—maybe only a few or maybe all of them—sheltered smugglers. He looked from Cat to Miss Fenwick, who wore a fearful expression, then nodded. “We will save the discussion for Meriweather Hall. Why don’t you show me how to find mermaid tears?”

“It is simple.”

“Then I should be well suited for the task.” His jesting brought smiles back to both women.

Could finding the tunnel and exposing the route the smugglers took be the way to prove he was a hero? Jonathan discounted that idea immediately. Not a soul along Sanctuary Bay doubted its existence, so uncovering it would not earn him the legitimate title of hero.

Lord, there must be a way to make this lie into the truth. Please show me how. His steps were lighter as he raised the prayer up. Surely God would not want him to live falsely.

As he followed Cat south along the curve of the beach, Jonathan stared across the wild waves to the headland where Meriweather Hall stood like the bastion it once had been. Pirates and other raiders had come from the sea and across the moors, and the great house had provided a refuge for nearby farmers and fishermen. Now the sun glinted off the hall’s many windows as if stars had fallen from the sky to take up residence in the walls.

“Show me what I am supposed to do,” he said.

“Finding mermaid tears,” Cat replied, pulling off her gloves and dropping them in the bottom of the bucket, “requires you to walk very slowly with your head down while you scan the sand. When you see a sparkle, check to see if it is glass.”

“Like this one!” Miss Fenwick bent and picked up something from the sand. “Oh, it is only a piece of shell.” She tossed it back to the ground.

“Where do you want me to look?” he asked.

Cat pointed to small stones that had been left in a line along the beach. “Why don’t you start there? I will follow the other line of stones closer to the water, and Vera can search next to the cliffs.”

Even though he would have preferred to walk beside Cat so he could admire her pretty face, Jonathan moved to the strip of stones. “This is a great length of beach,” he called over the rhythmic crash of the waves. “How long do we have before the tide comes in?”

Cat put her hand to her forehead to shade her eyes. “At least a couple of hours. I can still see the scaurs even though the waves are high.”

He copied her motion so he could see through the sun’s glare on the waves. “What is a scaur?”

“That rocky ridge in the harbor, the one the waves are breaking over.” She walked toward him so they did not have to shout. “Papa told me that the word derives from a Viking one for rock. Scaur...” She said the word slowly as if tasting how it felt on her lips.

He quickly looked away. He should not be thinking of her lips or any woman’s. Not while he clung to his lie. He repeated his prayer silently, hoping he would be shown the right path soon.

“Found one!” Cat held up a piece of glass no bigger than his smallest fingernail. “A green one.”

“May I?” asked Jonathan.

She placed the mermaid tear in his hand. The edges were as smooth as if they had been ground by a machine. Its time in the sea had given it a milky color. When he held it up and looked through it, he could see it had been pitted and scraped by salt and sand.

“Isn’t it lovely?” Cat asked.

“I had no idea that glass would look like that after being in the sea.” He dropped the piece in her hand and watched as she put it with care into the bucket. “Are they all that size?”

“All different sizes.” She motioned along the beach. “And various colors, so don’t assume it is not glass simply because it is white or brown.”

For the next hour, Jonathan walked along the beach between the two women. He had a difficult time concentrating on his task. Rather than look at the stone-strewn sand, he would prefer to admire Cat. Her cheeks were burnished by the wind, and her laugh lightened his heart. Each time she glanced in his direction, he hurriedly shifted his gaze back to the ground.

Why hadn’t he told her about his concerns with her embarking on a Season in London? He had had the perfect opportunity when they rode from Meriweather Hall to the vicarage. He should have said something, but he had enjoyed laughing along with her too much to bring up the dreary subject. And what could he have said? Don’t go to London and let the Beau Monde change you as it changed my sister. As it cost me the one woman I loved.

But it had taught him an important lesson. He would be a cabbage-head to lose his heart again to any woman who was part of the ton. If his heart had half the sense God gave a goose, it would lead him to a sensible woman like Vera Fenwick, who had no aspirations of a Season in London. Or perhaps he should emulate his mentor Lippincott and become a confirmed bachelor.

He needed to concentrate on the task at hand, but he found himself growing more frustrated. Because he did not find any mermaid tears? Or because he was close to Cat but too far away to chat with her without shouting?

As if she had heard his thoughts, she called, “Have you found anything?”

“I think,” he said, “I need to borrow some of the pieces you have found, so I might make a pair of spectacles out of them.” He paused, pretending to be deep in thought before adding, “Though it might not be wise to don what so many call barnacles when yon fishermen are scraping one and the same off their boats.”

That set both Cat and Miss Fenwick to laughing. Jonathan joined in, but his own laughter was forced. The jokes flowed off his lips without him being able to halt them. He would prefer to speak to Cat of things that mattered to her and to him. Instead, whenever he longed to say something serious to her, a jest burst from him.

Bowing his head, he continued to walk along the shore. Now he wanted to escape his own weakness, a legacy from the war that no medicine could cure.

He gave an exultant shout a short time later when, for the first time, he picked up a glittering tidbit and found it was a mermaid tear. Putting it in his pocket, he went on, becoming more adept at determining which pieces were glass and which were broken shells.

He heard a sharp cry. A gull? He looked up, but did not see any of the sea birds overhead. They still circled around the fishermen, eager for an easy meal.

Miss Fenwick yelled and pointed at the sea. Shading his eyes again, he looked in that direction. Something dark bobbed on the waves. A seal?

The cry came again, and he saw arms waving next to the dark spot on the water.

It was a child!

Being swept out to sea!

Jonathan did not hesitate. Here was his chance to prove to God and himself that he was worthy of being called a hero. Shrugging off his coat, he shoved it into Miss Fenwick’s hands as she ran toward him.

“Don’t dump the glass out of the pockets,” he warned, as he yanked off one boot and then the other.

He threw them onto the beach and ran toward the water. He heard shouts behind him. The only voice he recognized was Cat’s, but he did not slow. The child might be dragged down by the next wave.

The icy water froze his toes within seconds, and he gasped with the shock of the cold when he dove beneath the next wave. He fought the water’s pull that tried to send him back to the shore. Cutting as fast as he dared through the water, he heard more shouts. The words were lost to the wind and the sea. He looked up every few strokes to make sure he was headed in the right direction.

The child was being pulled out to sea faster than Jonathan was swimming. He sliced through the next wave and did not pause to raise his head. Ice seemed to be forming around his toes and fingers, and he had to fight to keep them moving. He could not slow. He had to get to the child. He had to save the child. Then he would be a hero.

Save the child.

Be a hero.

Save the child.

Be a hero.

He kept repeating that in his mind in time with his strokes to keep himself from slowing as the cold water began to gnaw at him.

Something splashed in the water beside him. The child! Had he reached the child?

He raised his head, shocked by how much energy the simple motion demanded. Instead of a child, he saw a coble.

A hand appeared in front of his nose, and he halted.

“Hey up, mate,” called a voice from above him. “Grab on and climb up.”

“Save the child,” he said. Or he tried to say it, but the words blurred through his chattering teeth.

The four fishermen in the coble must have guessed what he meant because one said in a heavy Yorkshire accent, “The barn is gat.”

“What?”

“The barn is gat.” The hand gestured toward where the child had been.

He saw another boat there. Two men were lifting the youngster out of the water and into that boat.

With a sigh, Jonathan nodded. The man’s strange words must have been telling him that the child had been saved. Grasping the man’s hand, he let himself be pulled up into the boat. He shivered in the bottom of the deep boat until someone tossed him a blanket that stunk of fish scales and sweat. He did not care, as he pulled it around his shoulders.

He said nothing, as the men rowed back to the shore where Cat and Miss Fenwick paced uneasily. What was he going to say to them? Now he recalled Cat’s shout. Most likely she had been trying to tell him that the fishermen were far more experienced than he was in saving someone in the sea. Not only had they rescued the child but him.

This hero stuff was going to be harder than he had guessed.


Chapter Three

As soon as the coble was pulled up on the beach, Catherine ran toward it, pausing only to pick up Mr. Bradby’s boots. She reached the boat at the same time Mr. Bradby was stepping over its high side. He wobbled, and she grasped his elbow to keep him from collapsing to the sand. A tingle swept up her arm, just as it had when he had handed her into the carriage back at Meriweather Hall, but this time she did not release her hold on his arm. Ignoring the delightful sensation, she focused on him.

He was dripping, even though the blanket had soaked up some water from his clothes. His sleeves were already stiffening from the salt and the chilly wind. When she proffered his boots, he snatched them and upended both to shake any sand out.

“That was the bravest thing I have ever seen,” Catherine said.

He tried to reply, but his words were garbled by his chattering teeth. When triumphant shouts came from closer to the village, he looked past her.

She turned, not letting go of his arm, to see another coble sliding onto the stones at the bottom of the street. A little boy was plucked out of the boat and handed to his mother who hugged him close, even as she scolded him for going too close to the water. Both mother and son were wrapped in more blankets as the rescuers led them up the steep street.

The men with Mr. Bradby slapped him companionably on the back. They started to make a few jokes at his expense but stopped at a firm look from Catherine. Or it might have been the pastor’s sister coming to join them. The fishermen put their fingers to the brims of their floppy hats, before they pushed the coble back into the waves and rowed toward the village.

Vera draped Mr. Bradby’s coat over his shoulders. “Can you walk?”

“Of course.” His words were clipped.

When he did not move, Catherine asked, “Do you need help with your boots?”

“I can manage quite well on my own.” He looked at her for the first time since he had come ashore. Anger blazed from his eyes. “If you would be so kind as to release my arm...”

Catherine jerked away, startled as much that she still held on to him as by his terse words. When he swayed again as he pulled on first one boot, then the other, she grabbed his arm before he could fall on his face. She let go quickly, but he still glared in her direction before stamping away along the sand. He started to pull on his coat, then slung it over his shoulder.

“What is upsetting him?” Vera asked as she and Catherine followed.

“I have no idea. Maybe he is annoyed that he didn’t get to rescue the child himself.”

“What does it matter who saved the child? We must be grateful to the good Lord that the child is safe along with Mr. Bradby and the other brave rescuers. God is good to heed our prayers.”

“Yes.” She envied Vera’s unshakable belief that God listened to each of her supplications.

Vera frowned. “I never imagined Mr. Bradby using such an icy tone. When last he called at Meriweather Hall, he was jolly and joking. Now he is grim.”

“I know.” Catherine had no other answer. She was as baffled as her bosom-bow.

Something must have happened out in the water that they had not been privy to on the shore. She could not imagine what that might be nor could she ask Mr. Bradby when fishermen still gathered at the foot of the street.

When the men called out greetings to Mr. Bradby, he nodded in their direction but did not speak. He remained mute as they climbed the steep street. A trail of drips marked his uneven steps. Several times Catherine had to steady him, and she heard exhaustion in his breathing as they crossed the bridge over the beck. He muttered something when Catherine linked her arm with his when he stumbled yet again.

“You may be petulant if you choose,” she said, giving him a frown as fierce as his, “but I choose not to see you fall on your nose.”

Vera looped her arm through his other arm, silencing any further protests from Mr. Bradby.

They reeled up the steepest part of the street, which seemed as vertical as the cliffs beyond the village. Catherine doubted Mr. Bradby could have made the climb on his own. His steps slowed, and he was panting by the time they reached the top. With the coachee’s help and Vera’s, Catherine assisted Mr. Bradby into the carriage. He sat heavily and leaned his head back against the seat.

Vera caught Catherine’s arm before she entered the carriage. Catherine looked at her, surprised, and asked, “What is it?”

“I will walk to the vicarage,” Vera said, as she dug into her pocket and pulled out a handful of mermaid tears. She placed them carefully in Catherine’s hand. “You are welcome to bring him there, if you wish.”

“I think it would be for the best to take him to Meriweather Hall where he won’t have to go back out in the cold again, just as he is getting warmed up.”

“I agree.” She glanced at the carriage. “I thought you might want a haven, too.”

Catherine smiled. “I am sure his usual good humor will return once he has dry clothing and something warm inside him.”

Vera nodded but did not look convinced.

Rightly so, Catherine discovered, when she climbed into the carriage. Mr. Bradby neither looked in her direction nor did he speak all the way back to Meriweather Hall. The damp wind coming off the sea was cold but not as frosty as the silence in the carriage. Catherine tried to start a conversation once and then gave up. Even when the carriage turned through the gates of Meriweather Hall, he said nothing.

She got out on her own and directed the footman who came to greet the carriage to assist Mr. Bradby. Hurrying inside, she gave instructions to another footman to have tea and bottles filled with hot water delivered to his chambers.

Only when she was going upstairs did she remember that she had not thanked Mr. Bradby for helping her and Vera collect mermaid tears. Her steps faltered, but she kept going. She did not have the courage to face him again, when he was in such a snappish mood.

She was going so quickly that she almost ran into her sister who was coming in the opposite direction at an equally determined pace.

“Where have you been?” asked Sophia. “I have been looking everywhere in the house for you.”

“I was—”

Her sister gave Catherine no chance to explain. “You should have told me where you had gone,” said Sophia, usually so calm, as she rubbed her hands together anxiously. Everything about the upcoming wedding seemed to leave her on edge. “Mme. Dupont is furious that you have missed another fitting. You know we have barely six weeks to get everything done.”

Catherine sighed. “I forgot about this morning’s fittings. We went down to the beach, and our appointment with Mme. Dupont slipped my mind.”

“The beach? Why would you go to the beach on such a blustery day?”

“For your wedding breakfast. I know how you love mermaid tears, so I’ve been collecting them since you announced your betrothal. Think how pretty they will look scattered on the tables.”

Sophia’s eyes grew round. “What a wonderful idea! Oh, I wished I had your artistic imagination. I never would have thought of such a thing.” She swept her sister into a big embrace. “I’m so glad to have you overseeing the wedding breakfast. It will be unforgettable.”

“Yes, it will.” She hoped it would be memorable for the right reasons, rather than the fact that she had made a muddle of it. “We were able to find quite a bit. Vera joined us looking for the pieces of glass.”

“Us?”

“Mr. Bradby helped, too.”

A smile brightened Sophia’s face. “So that is how he got soaked! I saw him coming into the house, dripping wet. Ogden had one of the maids trailing Mr. Bradby with a cloth to wipe up the floors. Did a big wave splash him?”

Catherine walked with her sister along the corridor as she gave a quick explanation of how Mr. Bradby had jumped into the sea to save a child. “He paused only long enough to give Vera the mermaid tears he had found. Which gave the fishermen a chance to launch their cobles and reach the boy before Mr. Bradby did.”

Sophia turned the corner toward the hallway that led to their rooms. “What a brave man!”

“That is what I said, but he brushed aside my words as if he didn’t want to hear them.”

“Heroes can be like that. They do something amazing but don’t want to talk about it afterward.”

Catherine considered her sister’s insight. Was that the reason Mr. Bradby had been tight-lipped? Her efforts to draw him out had been for naught, and if he had not spoken with Vera too, Catherine would have wondered if she had distressed him somehow.

And the anger she had seen in his eyes. Vera had been right. That fury seemed to belong to someone other than Jonathan Bradby, who had always been ready to make them laugh. What else lurked in the depths he had hidden so successfully? She needed to talk with Cousin Edmund, who had known him during the war. Maybe her cousin could offer some insight into Mr. Bradby’s peculiar behavior.

That would have to wait until she endured the fitting she had missed. The modiste jumped to her feet when Catherine followed Sophia into her sister’s room. A book dropped to the floor, and Mme. Dupont quickly picked it up and shoved it into her bag.

Catherine bit her lower lip to keep from smiling when she saw the author’s name emblazoned on the cover: Mrs. Ross. She hadn’t guessed the seamstress read gothic novels where even heroes and heroines went into decline and died before the end of the story. Such fanciful stories for a woman who insisted on acting practical at all times.

“I am sorry to keep you waiting, Mme. Dupont,” Catherine said to cover the modiste’s embarrassment.

“Non, non.” Mme. Dupont was once again determined to be in charge. “You are my customer. You have—how do they say?—no need to apologize to moi.”

Catherine tried not to roll her eyes at the seamstress’s fake French accent. To do that would chance making Sophia laugh, and they both would earn another scowl from the self-styled Mme. Dupont. The seamstress’s name was probably a very English one, but she clearly thought posing as a French modiste was good for her business.

Mme. Dupont waved her hand at the middle of the room. “Come, come, mademoiselle.”

Catherine had to admit that, despite her charade, Mme. Dupont was skilled with a needle. The wedding dress she was making for Sophia was the most beautiful Catherine had ever seen. It was unblemished white with delicate lace accenting the modest neckline, and the design was perfect for a tall, slender woman like her sister. The sketches Mme. Dupont had made for the gown Catherine would wear to the wedding had different lines because she was more than six inches shorter than Sophia.

“Get up on ze box,” Mme. Dupont continued, “so I can measure you for ze gowns.”

“Gowns?” asked Catherine, surprised. “I need only one for the wedding.”

“But,” her sister argued, “you need a full wardrobe for your Season in London. You will want to catch eyes when you attend soirees and assemblies.”

She nodded, though she doubted she would be there long. Only long enough to go to the British Museum to view the Elgin Marbles. What would her sister and Cousin Edmund think if she spoke of her plans and how she had no expectations of any man proposing to her? Even if one did, she would have to decline his offer of marriage. The idea of losing someone else she loved was too painful even to think about. Tears welled up in her eyes, but she was unsure if they were for Roland or her father or both.

“We want you to look your best, Cat,” Sophia went on.

“I thought you agreed not to call me that.”

Sophia put her hands on Catherine’s shoulders. With Catherine standing on the box, her sister’s eyes were level with hers. “I’m sorry, but I know how important going to London is for you.”

For a moment, Catherine believed that her sister had discovered the true reason for her longing to visit London. Then Sophia began to talk about needing several gowns for afternoon calls as well as riding clothes for Hyde Park and undergarments.

“All the clothing must be ready before Miss Catherine leaves for London,” Sophia said to Mme. Dupont who was making hasty notes. “Lord Meriweather intends to go up to London for the opening of Parliament at the end of January, and my sister will be traveling with him. Will it be possible to finish everything in time, Mme. Dupont?”

The seamstress looked aghast. “Miss Meriweather, you know I will try my best, but the end of January is only a few weeks after your wedding.”

Sophia’s voice grew whetted. “I know we have asked a lot of you and your seamstresses. Be honest with us, Mme. Dupont. If you cannot do this, you must graciously step aside. My sister must not be held up for ridicule by the ton because her clothing is unworthy of her position.”

Catherine was not astonished by her sister’s uncharacteristic vehemence. The London Season remained a prickly topic for Sophia. Her only Season had been cut short when a man she had thought cared for her had instead humiliated her in front of the Polite World. That had hurt her so deeply that she had fled back to Sanctuary Bay and had made her so suspicious of men that she almost ruined her relationship with Charles.

Maybe Catherine should be square with her sister. If Sophia understood that Catherine did not anticipate a match in Town, then that might set Sophia’s heart at ease.

“Sophia, that’s not necessary,” Catherine said.

“But it is.”

Glancing at Mme. Dupont, who was listening avidly, Catherine knew she could not speak the truth now. “I will need only a portion of these items when I leave. The rest can be delivered when Mme. Dupont has completed them.”

“That is true. Let me decide what the absolute minimum is you will need when you leave with Cousin Edmund.” Sophia tapped her chin with a single fingertip, then picked up the list she had compiled. She placed checks next to some items. When she was done, less than half of the items had been ticked. Handing it to Mme. Dupont, she asked, “Can you finish these in time for my sister’s departure?”

“Oui,” the seamstress said, after she had studied the page. “As well as a few other items.”

“If you can complete the ones I marked before Miss Catherine travels to London, then I’m sure my sister will commission you to do the rest.”

“Oui, oui, oui.” The modiste nodded her head in time with her agreement. She aimed a gleaming smile at Catherine.

The normally prattling Mme. Dupont said very little during the rest of the fitting. Catherine was equally quiet, abiding without comment the inadvertent prick of the pins as Mme. Dupont checked the seams and adjusted them. Finally she was done. She gathered her supplies and left, saying that she had all she needed for finishing Catherine’s gown and would be back on the morrow for a fitting with Sophia.

Catherine dropped onto the chaise longue by her sister’s biggest window and leaned her arm against her forehead in an exaggerated pose. “I’m not sure how much longer I can endure Mme. Dupont’s attention.”

With a laugh, Sophia pushed Catherine’s arm away from her head. She sat beside the chaise longue. “She said she was finished with you.”

“On one gown only. Once you are satisfied with your wedding gown, her attention will be fully on me again.” She sat up. “Really, Sophia, I don’t need a complete new wardrobe for this short trip up to London.”

“Short?”

Catherine looked away from her sister’s abrupt frown, as she scolded herself for speaking without thinking. “Sophia, you warned me that time goes quickly during the Season with all its events and calls.”

“True.” Her sister’s smile returned. “I want everything to be perfect for you. I have noticed Mme. Dupont annoys you. With the promise of more work, she will be on her best behavior.”

“I appreciate that.”

“You are doing so much for me. How could I not do something for you?”

Catherine embraced her sister. Dear Sophia always took such good care of her! It would be so different once her sister married and moved to live with her husband at Northbridge Castle in the south of England. For the first time, other than Sophia’s own abbreviated Season, the two sisters would be apart. Catherine realized how lonely it would be without having her sister to turn to. Vera would be nearby as would Cousin Edmund, but it was not the same.

And, also for the first time, Catherine could not be completely honest with her sister. If she told Sophia her fears, her sister would urge her to pray and seek guidance. That only worked if God listened to her prayers, and He had not in more than a year since her father’s death. Even before. He had not seemed to heed her pleas for Roland to return safe from the war.

Catherine must continue on the path she had chosen. Once she fulfilled her promise to Roland and visited the Elgin Marbles, she would come home with the sketches she had made of the ancient figures, knowing that she had done the best she could to honor the memory of the only man she had ever loved. She hoped then that her heart would begin to heal. She was certain she would never risk it enduring such pain ever again.

* * *

“Am I late?” asked Cousin Edmund as he entered the small parlor where Sophia had arranged for hot chocolate and cakes to be brought that afternoon for him and her sister.

“Right on time.” Catherine folded her hands on the pale blue of her gown as she smiled at her cousin.

When he had first arrived at Meriweather Hall in the autumn to claim the property that had come to him with his title, so many, including Catherine, had assumed he would offer for her sister. That way, the late lord’s family would not lose their home to a stranger. Shortly after Sophia had announced her betrothal to Cousin Edmund’s good friend, he had told Catherine that he doubted he would be a good match for either of the late baron’s daughters. Catherine had appreciated his honesty, and their uneasy relationship had developed into a friendship.

“I was pleased to get your invitation,” Cousin Edmund said. “After the bad experiences your sister and I first had with strained conversations during tea, I doubted either of you would ask me again.”

Catherine smiled as she motioned toward the tray. “Hot chocolate.”

“Let’s see if I do better with hot chocolate.” He sat facing her and took the cup she held out to him. “I knew winters are fiercer in North Yorkshire than in the midlands, but I guess I didn’t realize how much colder until now.”

“And the winter solstice is still weeks away.”

“We must make sure there is a lot of cocoa in the house then.”

Catherine laughed with him. When he asked how the plans were going for the Christmas Eve ball, she gave him noncommittal answers. She did not want to ask him to stop trying to help, because he was making her more work, nor did she want to admit that she was overwhelmed by the tasks.

“Alfred told me that a suitable log has been found for our Yule log.” Cousin Edmund reached for a cake. “I have forgotten to tell Sophia how much I appreciate her recommendation for Alfred to assume his late father’s duties as gamekeeper. Please remind me to tell her.”

“If I don’t forget...”

He took a bite of the cake, then set the rest on the plate by his half-emptied cup. “I know you have a lot on your mind right now. Was there something in particular you wanted to discuss with me?”

“Yes.” She decided to be forthright. “I wanted to talk to you about Mr. Bradby.”

“Is there a problem?” His easy smile fell away, and she caught a hint of the man who had been such a good leader on the battlefield. Now he was ready to leap to the defense of his friend.

“I wouldn’t call it a problem. I am baffled by something that happened today.”

“Him jumping in to save a boy when there were fishermen ready to go to the rescue?” His good humor returned. “That’s Bradby. Always ready to be the hero.”

“But when I praised his efforts, he gave me a look that could have frozen a fire.”

“What look?”

She described the anger she had never seen in his eyes before, how it had pierced through her, even icier than the sea wind. “But the fury didn’t seem to be aimed at us. It was turned inward.” She looked steadily at her cousin, hoping he had an answer for her. “Cousin Edmund, I knew from the beginning there has to be more to Mr. Bradby than the jester he often portrays. Such a man could not be successful as a solicitor.”

“That intense expression was one that we once were well familiar with.” Cousin Edmund took a sip from his cup and then balanced it on the knee of his black breeches. “We saw it often early on in the war. Bradby has an acute sense of fairness, and when he believed anyone was being treated unfairly, he was ready to do battle.”

“A true Don Quixote.”

“Truer than you may guess. He seemed to break into two parts of the character after the battle where he saved Northbridge’s life. On one hand, he has become like the silly man who believed a downtrodden woman was his queen. On the other, he is willing to joust with windmills, if that is what it takes to do what is right.”

“But what about the anger?”

“It’s always there, simmering behind the laughter.” He put his cup back on the table and clasped her hand between his. “Cousin Catherine, one thing you must know. Whenever Northbridge or I have tried to speak to him about what fires that anger, he has gone mum.”

“As he did today.”

He nodded and sighed. “We learned we must act as if we never saw any sign of what he’s trying to hide.”

Catherine wondered how that was supposed to help their friend, but their plan had worked for more than a year. Even though every instinct warned her not to acquiesce, she nodded. Her cousin and Charles knew him far better than she did. She hoped she was doing the right thing.

* * *

As he walked through Meriweather Hall, Jonathan sneezed once, followed by a second time and then a third. He hoped his beef-headed heroics that morning were not going to leave him with a head cold. That would be the ultimate joke on him and his scheme to be a true hero.

“Bless you,” he heard from the small parlor to his left.

He paused and looked in to see Meriweather and Cat slanting close to one another. Were they holding hands? When they hastily moved apart, Cat busied herself with the tea tray, as if she could not bear to look in his direction.

“See, the conquering hero comes!” crowed Meriweather as he came to his feet and motioned for Jonathan to enter.

Jonathan pretended to find his host’s comment amusing. With a terse laugh, he said, “I didn’t realize you were a fan of Handel’s Judas Maccabaeus.”

“Is that where the quote is from? I had no idea.” He waved toward the table. “Would you like something to warm you after your dip in the sea?”

“There is hot chocolate,” Cat said, standing with the lithe motion that always drew his eyes. “I find it comforting on a winter afternoon. If you would prefer tea, I can ring for it.”

“Hot chocolate sounds perfect.” Jonathan saw the twinkle in Meriweather’s eyes and looked away.

Yes, he had made a fool of himself this morning by diving into the sea when dozens of fishermen were standing by their cobles. He wished everyone would forget the incident. Or were Meriweather’s eyes bright because he had been holding Cat’s hand? That was what Jonathan wanted to forget.

Meriweather is your friend, and you should want him to be happy, an annoying little voice whispered from the back of his brain. And you have nothing to offer Cat other than a lie.

Even so, he was unable to meet his friend’s eyes as he took the cup Cat held out to him. He took a sip. It was delicious, but it could not warm the cold at his core when he thought of her hand in Meriweather’s.

Lord, give me the strength to do what is right for Meriweather and Cat. They deserve a better friend than I have been. It is bad enough that I am a fake hero. Do not let me become a false friend, too.

“You will have to come back in the summer,” Meriweather said, still grinning. “It should be a bit warmer for bathing in the sea then.”

“Actually the North Sea stays cold all year.” Cat sat as gracefully as she had risen.

“Then maybe your dip in the sea wasn’t so want-witted, after all.” Meriweather chuckled.

The familiar fury rushed through Jonathan. For once, it was not aimed at himself. If Meriweather thought to belittle him in front of Cat, then he was not the friend Jonathan had thought him to be.

“What would you have me do?” he fired back. “Stand there trying to decide whether I should help or not while a child was drowning?”

He realized his voice had been too heated and his words poorly chosen when color drained from Meriweather’s face and Cat gasped. Meriweather put his cup on a nearby table. Pushing past Jonathan, he walked out of the room. The door slammed in his wake.

“Oh, my!” Cat whispered. Her face was as pale as Meriweather’s had been.

Jonathan strode toward the door but halted when Cat called out to him. He turned. Distress dimmed her eyes as she slowly rose again.

“How could you say that?” she asked, each word lashing him. “How could you make a joke about his inability to make a decision?”

He almost snapped back that she had not come to his defense when Meriweather was jesting about him. Then he recalled that neither Meriweather nor Cat understood how Meriweather’s humor sliced into him. They had no idea that he was a fake hero who needed to prove his worth.

He sighed. Upsetting everyone was not his intention. It was his fault that he had been such a beef-head earlier. It was also his own fault that he had been foolish now. How could he foist his blame on his friend?

“I meant him no insult,” Jonathan said, wondering if Cat would believe him.

“You don’t need to explain that to me.” Her voice was strained. “You need to tell my cousin that.”

“Miss Catherine, I trust that you know that I meant him no insult. He is one of my dearest friends.”

She walked to where he stood and tilted her head back to meet his eyes. “Of course I do, and, deep in his heart, Cousin Edmund knows, too. He is frustrated at how the war changed him.”

He tried to comprehend her words, but it was difficult when her face was at the perfect angle for him to lean down and brush her lips with his. He shoved that thought away. Already he had wounded his good friend. He did not need to hurt her, as well.

“At least you have a few good memories of what you experienced,” she went on when he did not answer.

“Very few.” He thought of the camaraderie he had enjoyed during the war.

“You can always recall that you saved Charles’s life. My cousin doesn’t have that to comfort him.” She looked past him to the door. Her amazing eyes were the color of the hot chocolate and just as warm when they focused on him again. “I hope when we go to London, it is not too much for him. He plans to take his seat in Parliament, and the other lords will expect him to vote on issues brought before them.”

“While you enjoy all the events of the Season.” He managed to keep the bitterness out of his voice.

“I don’t know about all the events, but I am excited about going to London.”

“I am sure you are.” He bowed his head toward her. “If you will excuse me, Miss Catherine, I need to make my amends to Meriweather.”

If she replied, he did not hear her, as he rushed from the room before he gave in to the temptation to grasp her by the shoulders and try to instill some good sense into her. He despised the idea of charming, innocent Catherine Meriweather changing as his siblings had to meet the expectations of the ton.

Maybe he could talk her out of going. He had no idea how, but he must try before Cat’s life became an illusion just as his sisters’ lives had.

Just as his was.


Chapter Four

“Catherine?” Meriweather grumbled under his breath and loosened his cravat to begin tying it again in front of the glass in his grand bedchamber. “Of course I like her. She is my cousin.”

Jonathan sat and watched. He doubted his friend would ever get the complicated arrangement of his cravat to his satisfaction. He could help, but that was not the reason he had come to speak with him at such an early hour.

Meriweather’s valet stood to one side, eager to offer his assistance. The short, pudgy man clasped his hands behind his back only to suddenly reach out to assist his lord, but then drew his hands back and clasped them again.

“Lane, that will be all,” Meriweather said without glancing at his valet.

Lane bowed his head before leaving.

“The servants are too loyal here,” Meriweather said. “They listen at doors in hopes of serving us better.”

“Or to have some tidbit of gossip to share in the kitchen.”

Meriweather chuckled, then grew somber as he drew on his waistcoat and began buttoning it. “You know, I never had a manservant before. I was quite capable of dressing myself, but I have come to depend on Lane to lay out my clothing and assist me.”

“As you should, now that you hold the title of Lord Meriweather.” Jonathan pretended not to hear his friend’s frustration. Meriweather was more distressed about not being able to decide which clothing to wear each day than having a man to brush the lint from his coat.

“You aren’t here to discuss how I’ve become accustomed to the life of quality. You didn’t bring the papers with you, so you are not here to have me sign them.”

“If you are ready to review the lease, I can get the paperwork now.” Jonathan started to rise. He wondered why he had not put the facts together before he had arrived at Meriweather Hall. He should have guessed when Meriweather arranged to lease a house on a fashionable square in London that he intended to fire off his cousin into Society.

“Not now.” He motioned for Jonathan to sit again. “What is bothering you, Bradby?”

“Your cousin.”

“I usually would say you must be more specific, but I have eyes, and I have noticed how often yours are on my cousin Catherine.” He buttoned up his dark blue waistcoat. “Not that I can blame you, for she is charming and lovely. I assume you find her that and more.”

Jonathan considered his words with care. He knew the power of words from his law work. “Odd that you should say that after what I witnessed.”

“Witnessed? Speak plainly, man!”

“I saw you holding her hand.”

“Me? I never—” His eyes widened. “Of course. In the small parlor the other day. She asked my advice and was distressed by what I told her. What you saw was familial affection. Nothing more.” He turned from the mirror and grinned. “Do you have another type of affection for my younger cousin?”

“I barely know her, and she barely knows me.”

“She appears to know more about you than you suspect.”

That shook Jonathan. He had been certain that his secret was so well hidden that nobody would perceive it. His friends had not, because they thoroughly believed the lie that he was a brave hero. How had he betrayed the truth to Cat?

“If I may, can I ask what she sought your advice about?” he asked.

Meriweather gave his cravat a final twist before he answered. “You.”

“Me?”

“She was bothered by your darker side, which she had not encountered before that morning on the shore.”

Jonathan was brought up short. He had not guessed that Cat had been so distressed by his anger at himself.

“And there may be more,” Meriweather said as he considered his cravat. “She may have been troubled by your attempt to rescue that child.”

“What?” He came to his feet. “You cannot believe she would ever allow a child to be endangered.”

Meriweather faced him. Raising his hands, he motioned for Jonathan to sit again. As soon as Jonathan had complied, Meriweather said, “You mistake my meaning. It is not your actions that would have upset her. Just the fact that both you and the child were in danger in the sea.” He went to where his brightly polished boots waited by a stool. “I have heard enough in the past couple of months to know that she was involved with a young man before the war. His name was Roland something-or-other. He joined the navy and died in battle.” He sat and tugged on a boot, grimacing. “I probably should say no more.”

“Probably not.”

Meriweather stood to stamp his heel down in the tight boot. “Or maybe you should know. Help me here.”

Jonathan stepped forward to grasp the top of the boot so his friend could force his foot into it.

“Not with the boot!” Meriweather stamped away, his foot partially in the boot. “Help me with deciding if I should tell you or not. Rip me! I can’t even make the simplest decision.” He sat and slumped in a nearby chair. “Will I ever stop doubting myself?”

“You are asking me for more help than I can give.” His heart ached for his friend, and he knew of only one solution. “If you take this problem to God, He will help you.”

“Don’t you think I have already done that? Every night and every morn, I pray for God to show me His mercy and help me rediscover how to make even the simplest decision.” Meriweather waved his hands to halt Jonathan’s reply. “I know what you are about to say, because it is what I would say if our situations were reversed. God’s time is different from man’s. We must be patient.”

“That is what I would say,” he replied, though he thought of how often he was impatient for the chance to prove that God had been right to let him survive the battlefield.

Meriweather finally jammed his foot all the way into his boot. Resting his elbows on his knees, he looked up at Jonathan. “I thank God that one of us came through war relatively unscathed.”

Jonathan gulped so loudly he was surprised his friend did not react. He should tell Meriweather the truth that haunted him. He could not. He turned on his heel and walked out. He was halfway down the stairs before he realized Meriweather had not told him about the young man who had touched Cat’s heart. It served Jonathan right not to hear the truth when he could not speak it himself.

* * *

The breakfast-parlor was empty when Catherine entered it. Two days had passed since she had sought her cousin’s advice, and that afternoon had splintered with anger. Despite Mr. Bradby’s determination to speak immediately to her cousin, she had seen no sign of any mending of the differences between them.

Not that she had seen either of them often. Her fitting sessions with Mme. Dupont were aimed at providing her with the best designs possible for her sojourn in London, but most of the gowns the modiste suggested were, in Catherine’s opinion, silly. Yesterday she had told Mme. Dupont that she had some ideas of her own and would bring them to the session today. She suspected the seamstress agreed only to placate her. Mme. Dupont was due for a surprise when she saw the patterns Catherine had completed late last night after spending the evening scanning magazines from London. La Belle Assemblée, Ackerman’s Repository and The Lady’s Magazine had given her ideas, and she had added her own touches for clothing that would be both useful and beautiful. She focused on one gown, which she could wear to the British Museum for her visit to the Elgin Marbles. It must be a shell pink, because that was the color she had imagined wearing when she and Roland went to visit the ancient carvings. He always told her that she looked her best when she wore pink.

Before she showed the designs to Mme. Dupont, she wanted Sophia’s opinion. She had hoped Sophia would be at breakfast when she arrived.

Catherine put her sketchbook on a chair at the table and then went to the sideboard where steaming servers held eggs, oatmeal, muffins and more than a dozen other choices. Taking a plate, she spooned some eggs onto it, and then selected sausages that smelled of apple cider and black pepper.

At the sound of boot heels behind her, she looked over her shoulder. Her smile wavered when Mr. Bradby entered the breakfast-parlor. He wore a bright blue coat and a yellow waistcoat over black breeches. When he moved past a window, his ginger hair caught fire.

He walked to the table. If he espied her sketchbook, he was sure to ask her about it. She did not want to admit to her love of art and chance that he would think of it as a waste of time, as one young man had coldly described her work when he had called at Meriweather Hall. Also there were articles about the Elgin Marbles, clipped from newspapers, pasted into the back of the book. If he saw those, he was sure to be curious why she was intrigued with the ancient Greek sculptures. She wanted to avoid speaking of the promise she had made to Roland until she had fulfilled it. Maybe she should pull out the pages with her sketches for Mme. Dupont before she showed them to Sophia.

But for now... She gave a moment’s thought to rushing to the chair where she had left her drawings, then halted herself. Acting so out of hand could draw his attention to her sketchbook.

“Good morning,” Catherine said, hoping her voice sounded carefree. “Either we are very early or very late.”

“The former.” He met her eyes steadily. The rage she had seen after their time on the shore was now gone, replaced by regret. “Your cousin should be down in a few minutes.”

She set her plate on the table, then poured herself a cup of coffee. Casual. Just act casual. She carried the steaming cup to where she usually sat. Placing it next to her plate, she drew out her chair and sat, sliding the sketchbook onto her lap.

She had no idea if she betrayed her tension somehow, or if Mr. Bradby had extra-keen eyes. “What is that?” he asked as he sat across from her.

She put the sketchbook on the floor by her feet, putting the toe of one slipper on it. “A book I have been enjoying.” That was the truth, and she hoped he would not question her further. “Did you get one of Mrs. Porter’s blueberry muffins? They are a rare treat.”

“I did.” He looked down at his plate. “May I give our thanks for this wonderful meal?”

“Of course.”

He bowed his head, and she did the same, hoping—as she did each time someone said grace or she attended church—that she would again feel God’s comforting presence. The loss of Him in her life added to her grief from losing Papa.

“Lord,” Mr. Bradby said, “we thank You for Your benevolence in bringing us to this table on the beautiful morning You made. We are grateful for the food we are about to eat, and we are grateful for having each other in our lives.”

Catherine was glad her head was down so he could not see her amazement. After how he had acted the last time they spoke, she had not expected him to speak of having her in his life, especially in prayer that should come from the heart.

“Amen,” she said after he had. “That was lovely, Mr. Bradby.”

She reached for her fork, but paused when he asked, “Would you be offended if I asked you to call me by my given name in exchange for permission to address you as informally?”

She smiled. “Is that a very convoluted way of asking me if I’d feel comfortable calling you Jonathan?”

“I am a solicitor. Not too long ago in the past, my ilk was paid by the word. It is a habit that has been passed down ever since.” He leaned one elbow on the table and smiled. “But, Miss Catherine, you have yet to give me an answer to my question.”

“If I understand your question—and that is a mighty if—then, yes, I would be pleased to have you call me by my given name, and I shall do the same when I speak with you.” She pushed his elbow off the table. “Solicitor, one must mind one’s manners here.”

“Truly?”

She laughed, glad that he was once again the funny man whose company she had enjoyed during his last visit. “If my mother was here, she would be shocked by a gentleman with his elbow on the table.”

“I shall endeavor to make sure my manners are the pattern-card of perfection by the time Lady Meriweather returns.” He stood and bowed deeply to her, sweeping out his arm like a grand courtier.

“Are we too late for the dance?” asked Cousin Edmund as he and Sophia walked into the breakfast-parlor.

Jonathan laughed. “We were just being silly.”

She looked from her cousin to Jonathan and back, relieved when they both smiled. Cousin Edmund must have accepted Jonathan’s apology. For that she was very grateful. Christmas was the time of year for good spirits, not angry ones.

The light conversation continued while her cousin and sister served themselves and came to the table. Catherine let the others chat while she listened. Later she would show Sophia her sketches. For now she would enjoy the companionable meal.

She looked up startled when Cousin Edmund’s voice took on a sharper edge as he talked of more serious matters. “Those curs dared to threaten Alfred Demaine and his mother.”

Alfred had been appointed by Cousin Edmund to take over the position as gamekeeper on the estate. He was not yet twenty, but he had learned the job from his late father, who had held it for more than thirty years.

She gripped the edge of the table, horrified that anyone had menaced Alfred and his kindly mother whose cottage was beyond the stables. Jonathan mumbled something under his breath, and she glanced at him. He was appalled by the threat to the Demaines. Even though he was not part of Meriweather Hall, she remembered Cousin Edmund saying that fairness was important to him.

She had no doubt who had bullied the Demaines. “Why would the smugglers do that?”

“To keep them close to their cottage,” Cousin Edmund replied. “It happened last night. The lad was so terrified to leave his mother alone that he didn’t come to tell me until after dawn. He knows the smugglers usually seek their holes as soon as the sun rises, so he believed that she should be safe. I am not as certain as Alfred is that the smugglers are abroad only after dark.”

“If he spoke with them...” Jonathan began. The smugglers were becoming too bold. Maybe their overconfidence would be the route to their downfall.

He looked around the table. Both Cat’s and her sister’s faces were blanched. Meriweather’s mouth was a straight line, and fury radiated from him.

“I know what you’re hoping, Bradby, but no,” Meriweather said. “He cannot identify them by either their voices or by their clothing. There were four men. They wore work clothing, but with kerchiefs pulled up over their faces, and their caps drawn low. Alfred said one man spoke in a low growl that sounded more like a beast than a human.”

“To frighten them more.” Cat fisted her hands on the table. “This must stop!”

“I agree.” Meriweather’s face was grim. “I know your father tried to work out an agreement with them to stay off the lands of Meriweather Hall, but that failed. Even if it had worked, it is not my intention to let bullies have their way.”

“So what do we do?” asked Miss Meriweather.

Cat got up and went around the table to give her sister a hug. Jonathan sighed. No wonder Miss Meriweather was distressed. She had nearly had a run-in with the smugglers a couple of months ago, and the incident had scared Cat’s usually courageous sister who had feared for Northbridge and his children.

“That is the question, isn’t it?” asked Meriweather.

Jonathan clenched his hands in his lap. They had reached the impasse again; the place where his friend needed to make a decision, and he was unable to do so. Wishing he could think of something to say to help him, Jonathan looked away.

His gaze connected with Cat’s. She was as discouraged as he was about Meriweather, and he wished he could offer some solution.

Lord, he prayed, Meriweather is a good man. Help him trust himself again.

“What about going to Sir Nigel?” asked Miss Meriweather.

Jonathan looked reluctantly away from Cat as Meriweather said, “He has offered to help, but he has not done anything.”

“Maybe if he learns of this threat to our people, he will consider doing more,” Cat said. “It could be his people next.”

“What do you think?” Meriweather asked Cat and Sophia. “Is it worth talking to Sir Nigel again?”

“We must take care that no one belonging to Meriweather Hall comes to harm.” Miss Meriweather glanced at her cousin, then back at Cat. “Unless you have a better idea, I say we should reach out to Sir Nigel one more time. Perhaps Lord Ashland, as well.”

“That sounds like a good idea, though I have no eagerness to call upon Sir Nigel again so soon.” Meriweather looked relieved that someone had made the decision for him. “I shall give Lord Ashland a call in the coming week. Maybe he will have some good ideas.”

“We could,” Jonathan said quietly, “pray that God freezes the sea, and that will keep the smugglers from their nefarious deeds.”




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