Authors: Jillian Hart
At the cottage, she opened the door. “You can sit anywhere, Mr. Bradby. Gregory will be here as soon as he can. If you will excuse me...”
“Of course,” he said automatically, but was surprised when she turned and walked back the way they had come.
Jonathan lowered his head as he stepped into the cottage. He saw the lamp he had moved hanging by the hearth, and he thought of how pleased Miss Fenwick had been with his help. Cat had been even more so, and he had delighted in being able to make her happy with such a small deed.
He chose a seat by the hearth which had burned down to embers. Rising, he put more logs on the fire and stirred it up, so the cottage would be warm when the Fenwicks entered. He sat again and waited with little patience. He wanted this conversation started. He wanted it over. He wished he could avoid it altogether.
Maybe he could have if he had not come back to Meriweather Hall. No, it was not the place that had compounded his guilt. It was Cat. She was open and guileless and believed the foolish story of his heroism. Each time she mentioned it, or someone else did in her hearing, he wanted to crawl away like the worm he was.
He needed forgiveness. God's and his friends'...and most of all, Cat's. He knew how to ask God for forgiveness and he had, but knew he had to own to the truth to his friends before God absolved him of what had started out simply as a misunderstanding before blossoming into this lie that consumed him.
The door opened, and Mr. Fenwick came in. Even though he was not as tall as Jonathan, he had to duck beneath the low rafters. The vicar did it with the ease of practice as he removed his coat, hat and gloves, and hung them on pegs by the door.
“Thank you, Mr. Bradby, for getting the fire going.” He held out his hands to the hearth. “Even the old-timers are saying they cannot remember a winter this cold this early in Sanctuary Bay.” He faced Jonathan. “But you didn't come here to talk about the weather, or so I am assuming.” He pulled up a chair and sat. “What can I help you with, Mr. Bradby?”
The words he had thought about saying so often withered on his tongue. It had been a mistake to approach Mr. Fenwick. He had known the Meriweathers for as long as he had been their vicar. Maybe Jonathan should have sought out advice from a clergyman who did not know either him or his friends.
Mr. Fenwick gave him an encouraging smile, and Jonathan realized the vicar had mistaken the cause for his hesitation when Mr. Fenwick said, “You need not worry about the chance of my sister overhearing our conversation. Vera is joining the Meriweathers and Lord Northbridge at Meriweather Hall for the afternoon.” Another smile eased his stern face. “She gives me time alone on Sundays for prayer and contemplation and for conversations with my parishioners.”
The vicar's words offered him the exactly the excuse he needed to leave. “I am not one of your parishioners, so I should not take up your time.” He stood. “Thank you.”
Mr. Fenwick got up and somehow blocked his way to the door without being obvious. Not that it was difficult in the cramped cottage where Jonathan felt as if he needed to bend double to avoid striking his head.
Motioning toward the chairs again, the vicar said, “Please sit, Mr. Bradby. I have never heard it said that the good Lord cares where we speak to Him as long as we speak from the heart.”
How Jonathan longed to do exactly that! To bare his pain and accept the cost of his lies, so he could finally put the war and its pain behind him.
He sat and said, “I need your advice, Mr. Fenwick, on an issue that gnaws at me.”
“Whatever you say will not leave this cottage other than rising to God's ears.”
“Good.” He had seen the trust the Meriweathers put in their vicar, so he must do the same. “My friends have one impression of me, and it is not exactly the truth. I know I should be honest with them.” He looked down at his fingers that were clasped so tightly that his knuckles were bleached. “I should have been long ago.”
“The truth does not become less important because time has passed.”
“But speaking it does.”
Mr. Fenwick nodded. “I understand.”
“You do?” he asked, surprised.
“Mr. Bradby, in Psalms, it is written,
âThou hast set our iniquities before Thee, our secret sins in the light of Thy countenance.'
That tells us that it is the most unusual person who doesn't have some secret. In fact, I have never met anyone, man or woman, who is completely forthright. All of us, and I'm including myself when I say that, have done things or said things or overlooked things that in retrospect makes us ashamed. Speaking of it later is often too difficult, so we carry that truth as a secret branded on our soul.”
“That is what it feels like. Something burning on my soul.”
The vicar smiled gently. “Never forget that verse from Psalms.”
“That there is One from whom I never can keep a secret, for He sees into the deepest portions of our hearts?”
“Yes.”
“I have spoken to Him, and I believe I know what He wishes me to do.” His mouth twisted. “Which is why I am here.”
“I will not query more deeply into what preoccupies you, Mr. Bradby, but I can tell you what the Apostle Paul wrote.
âWe henceforth be no more children, tossed to and fro, and carried about with every wind of doctrine, by the sleight of men, and cunning craftiness, whereby they lie in wait to deceive; but speaking the truth in love, may grow up into Him in all things.'
”
“So you are suggesting that I should trust my friends?”
Mr. Fenwick hesitated as if trying to think of another quote to answer Jonathan's question. “Yes. Trust your friends. They are good men and women.” A smile flitted across his lips. “I am assuming that you consider the Meriweather women your friends.”
“I certainly do.” There was a bit too much fervor in his voice, but he was ready to grasp onto any suggestion as a way to pull himself out of this morass he had let go on for too long. “And I want to keep them as friends.”
“Perhaps through prayer, you can come to understand why you are withholding the truth from them. Shall we pray together?”
Jonathan nodded, even though he knew what God's answer would be: Jonathan must own to the truth. So he prayed for the courage to do God's will. He would need every bit that his friends believed he had.
Chapter Ten
W
hen Jonathan arrived at Meriweather Hall shortly after the evening meal, Cat wondered where he had spent the day. Vera had told her that he had asked to speak with her brother. Cat had been glad to hear that.
But, as soon as she saw Jonathan's tense expression, she was certain that he had not found the answer he needed. She pushed back from the desk, away from the accounts he had straightened out for her and hurried out into the hall.
“Jonathan?” she called.
He paused but did not turn. His rigid shoulders told her that he had no interest in talking.
“Mrs. Porter said she would keep a plate warm for you.” Cat squashed her curiosity about where he had been. The answer was right in front of her, because the polish on his boots had been scoured away by sand. He must have been walking along the shore. “I can have your supper sent to the dining room or your chamber, whichever you prefer.”
“Thank you.” He started to walk away.
She followed. “Where do you want to eat?”
“It doesn't matter. Whatever is simpler for your household.”
His voice was gloomier than she had ever heard it, and his steps were as heavy as if he dragged a herd of elephants in his wake.
“Is there anything else I can do?” she asked, her face getting hot as she realized how her question sounded.
“No.”
Knowing she should let the matter go, she could not keep herself from saying, “You have changed.”
“Haven't you noticed that war changes a man?” He turned. His eyes were hollow with torment.
She longed to take his hands and draw him into the closest room where he could divulge what was making him heartsick. “Jonathan, I am worried about you. So please don't try to betwattle me with such a question. I didn't know you before the war.”
“True, butâ”
“You have changed since you were here last time.”
“I didn't realize I was acting differently.”
Pain shot through her heart. “Jonathan, please don't be false with me. I could not bear it.”
“I am sorry, but...” He did not finish the apology as he walked away.
She watched him leave. She wanted to give chase and demand that he be honest with her. She stayed right where she was. How could she help him if he refused to tell her the truth of what caused him such pain?
Maybe he did not want her help.
The thought drew her up short. He had told her that there was nothing else she could do. Just tonight with supper or did he mean forever?
Her heart threatened to crack in two, and she could not ignore how deeply he had found a place in it.
* * *
Cat paced from one side of the small parlor to the other, as she told Sophia about the conversation with Jonathan. Candles flickered with her passage, making her shadow dance on the wall.
“Do you think his distress has to do with Charles or the children?” Sophia asked as she sat beside the window.
“Of course not. He adores the children, and we all know what he did for Charles.”
“Miss Kightly could not be the cause. Her arrival has Cousin Edmund all on end. Not Mr. Bradby.” Sophia frowned. “Not that it matters now that she's gone back to Sir Nigel's house.”
“When did that happen?” asked Cat, shocked out of her dismay.
“When Sir Nigel left after the evening meal, she went with him. He became incensed when someone mentioned the effigy that you found in the woods. He made no secret that his great-niece must not remain where she has been threatened.”
Cat took in the information, which was hardly surprising. Trust Sir Nigel to overreact.
“Be that as it may,” she said, “Lillian isn't to blame. Jonathan has been acting oddly since he arrived. Haven't you noticed?”
“I noticed he was a bit more exacting than usual.”
“A bit?” Cat laughed without humor. “Sometimes it is as if I am in the company of a complete stranger.”
A knock came at the door, and it opened slightly. Charles looked around it to ask, “Am I intruding?”
“Of course not.” Sophia came to her feet and held out her hands to her fiancé. As she took them, she said, “So cold! Have you been riding?”
“No, I took the children out for a walk before bed because Michael had to âsee the sea,' as he always says. They insisted on going all the way out to the end of the headland. Something about seeing a mermaid crying. I don't know where they got that idea.”
Cat laughed. “You can blame me, Charles. I had them sorting sea glass with me this afternoon, and I told them how we call the pieces mermaid tears.”
“Ah, a great mystery solved.” He sat next to Sophia and put his arm around her shoulders.
“Now that we have solved one mystery, maybe you can solve another for me,” Cat said as she sat facing them.
“Which mystery is that?” Charles asked.
“Jonathan. He isn't the same man he was when he first came here with you and Cousin Edmund.”
Charles drew in a deep breath. “To be honest, Catherine, it puzzles me, too. Bradby had tongue enough for two sets of teeth. Before he saved my life, he never was without a quick answer or a brilliant suggestion.”
“As a solicitor, he has to have an agile mind.”
“So true.”
“When did he change?”
Charles looked past her to the fire on the hearth. “The day after the battle when he saved my life, he was a different man. Instead of profound comments, he acted as if everything he said must be a jest.”
“We saw that on your visit in the fall.” Sophia blinked on tears that jeweled her eyes. “I saw how hurt he was when nobody laughed at his quips.”
“Maybe,” Cat said, “that is why he struggles to avoid funning now and is stern and grim.” She picked up a cup of tea that had gone cold while she pondered why Jonathan had changed and then put it down when her fingers trembled with despair. “And if someone praises him for being a hero, he goes as silent as the world before the first dawn.”
“He is still acting that way?” Charles gave a deep sigh. “I have prayed so often that whatever torments him will be banished from his soul.”
“As I have,” Sophia added. “And I will keep doing so.”
“I'm glad you will.” Cat hoped neither Charles nor her sister noticed that she had not spoken of praying for Jonathan, too. She could only hope that He would heed their prayers and help Jonathan.
* * *
Sunshine ran along the passage on the ground floor of Meriweather Hall. So did a youngster.
Jonathan skipped to one side to avoid a boy who raced past him. It could not be Michael, for the boy was twice Michael's height. Jonathan got out of the way as two more boys hurried after the first one. They were laughing and barely took note of him. A coterie of a half-dozen girls of various ages walked toward him. When he nodded a greeting, they giggled and followed the boys toward the back of the house.
“We aren't being invaded,” said Cat as she came along the passage.
He stared, unable to deny himself the pleasure of her beauty. The sunlight glistened in her ebony hair and dark eyes. Her simple gown of a fresh pink that matched her cheeks suited her far better than any elegant confection of silk and lace worn at Almack's. Only belatedly did he notice Miss Fenwick standing behind Cat.
“It's a Christmas tradition to invite the village children here to make plum cakes,” Cat continued with a smile as if they had not exchanged sharp words yesterday evening. “You know how important traditions are to us at Meriweather Hall.”
“I have seen that.”
“You are welcome to join us. Jobby is already the center of attention, though once Mrs. Porter brings out the minced fruit, all the children will be focused on sneaking bites when she isn't looking.”
“The kitchen will be crowded. You don't need me there to get in the way.”
“The more the merrier.” With a laugh, she proffered her arm as he had to her so often.
He pushed aside his dismals and looped his arm through hers. When she linked arms with Miss Fenwick, the three of them walked together the short distance before a table narrowed the hallway.
Cat started to move away, but he caught her hand and pressed it back on her sleeve, as Miss Fenwick hurried forward to herd the youngsters toward the kitchen stairs. Cat looked up at him, wonderment in her eyes, and he knew she felt the same lightning pulse when his skin had brushed hers.
I sought the Lord, and He answered me, and delivered me from my fears
. The line from Psalm 34 had been one he had prayed on last night. He still feared that his friends would despise him for his deception, but he continued to seek the Lord's direction. When the time was right, God's time not his own, the answer would come.
“Are you doing better today?” Cat asked beneath the excited voices of the children.
“I am.” He had not yet found the answer to his quandary, but he believed that he would with God's help. Then, and only then, he might speak of the way the touch of her fingers set his heart to galloping like the village children.
“I am glad.”
“I am, as well.”
The smile she gave him would brighten the sky at midnight, and its warmth softened another layer of the ice around his heart.
The kitchen was in an uproar but a joyous uproar. Even Mrs. Porter was grinning broadly as she and her staff made sure each child had a place at the long wooden tables.
“You, too, Mr. Bradby,” the cook gushed. “Everyone in the kitchen joins in today.” She gestured toward the table.
Jonathan hesitated a moment, but Cat whispered, “You might as well comply. She won't let you escape without some flour on your apron.”
“I don't have an apron.”
With a laugh, she plucked two folded aprons off the pile one of the kitchen maids carried along the table. She handed one to him before looping the top of the other over her head.
He stared at the crisply pressed apron. “I will look like a fool.”
“You will look more addlepated if you have flour all over your waistcoat.”
Again he hesitated, then his gaze was caught by two boys on the other side of the table. They appeared around eleven or twelve years old, and they were watching him as they held aprons in their own hands. If he refused to wear the apron, the boys would, too. He did not see any youngsters older than the two, and he guessed that this might be their last year for coming to Meriweather Hall for this annual event. Ruining it for them would be cruel.
With a broad smile, he shrugged off his coat. He pulled the apron over his head and tied it behind his back, as if he wore an apron every day. The boys glanced at each other, shrugged and followed suit. He gave them a nod, but said nothing as Mrs. Porter's assistants began putting large earthenware bowls in front of each person. The aroma of candied fruit that had soaked in its juices and honey wafted up, and he could not keep from bending over to draw in a deeper breath.
“No samples,” Cat teased as she followed the kitchen maids with a bucket of wooden spoons. She paused to let each volunteer select one. On the other side of the table, her sister was doing the same.
“Just enjoying the fragrance,” he said.
“Be patient and you can enjoy the taste.” She held out the bucket to him.
He pulled out a long-handled spoon. “I thought wooden spoons were used on Stir-up Sunday. To signify the wood of the Christmas manger.”
“Mrs. Porter does use a wooden spoon when she invites the whole household to stir the mincemeat for the Christmas pies, but we also use a wooden spoon when we mix fruit for the villagers' pies.”
He smiled. “Should I turn the spoon clockwise, close my eyes and make a wish as one does on Stir-up Sunday?”
“You may, but I doubt it will gain you anything other than splashing fruit and honey onto the table.” She laughed as she continued along the large table.
He watched her as she spoke kindly to each child. If one of the children was too short, she called for a chair to be brought so the little one could mix the fruit in his or her bowl. She worked with the children, helping those who needed it, praising those who were working hard and gently reminding those who were more interested in fun of the importance of their task. She easily handled each problem as it arose. How could she believe she was inept at overseeing an important event, when every child smiled more broadly after she spoke to him or her?
He noticed as well that the children were open and excited to talk with her. The lives of the Meriweathers were entwined with the villagers'. He had seen that during his previous visit.
Jonathan let himself get caught up in the holiday excitement as the children mixed the fruit. Half would stay at Meriweather Hall to be made into puddings and pies. The rest would be sent home with the children who would be taken back to the village in the big wagons the fishermen used to carry their catch to market.
The two boys across the table nudged one another with elbows, then the younger one asked, “Were you a soldier?”
“Yes.” Jonathan kept stirring the thick mixture.
“Did you fight Boney's army?”
“Yes.”
He steeled himself for another question as the boys grinned at him.
“Told you so,” said the taller boy. “My dad said both of his lordships and Mr. Bradby were soldiers.”
“Are you a hero like Admiral Lord Nelson?” asked the younger boy.
Before Jonathan could answer, Cat put her hands on the boys' shoulders. “How are you two coming along? Is your mixture ready?”
“Aye!” both boys crowed.
She hooked her finger. “Then come with me. I could use your help with the younger ones.”
Their thin chests puffed out with pride. “Aye, Miss Catherine!” They bounced along behind her.
Oddly, irritation pricked Jonathan. Did Cat think he could not deal with two young boys? He silenced that thought, ashamed that it had come into his mind.