Authors: Jillian Hart
Crack!
He looked down to see his wooden spoon in two pieces. He must have been gripping it so hard it had broken. The children on both sides of him gazed at him with wide eyes.
“That happens,” Miss Fenwick said as she handed him another spoon. “Every year.”
He took the second spoon, then pulled out the broken spoon by what was left of its handle. Fortunately it was long enough so that only his knuckles brushed the gooey mix. Even so, the stickiness clung to his fingers, cementing them together each time they touched.
“Guess you don't know your own strength,” a boy on the other side of the table joked.
“Guess not.”
His answer gave the boys all the invitation they needed to pepper him with questions about fighting Napoleon's army. He gave them short answers, not willing to ease their curiosity while so many other young children within earshot.
When Cat returned, she asked him to help pour the mixture into the pots for each family's share. She looked so pretty with her cheeks reddened by the heat and wisps of hair curling around her face. She laughed when she saw the broken spoon by his bowl, but her jesting made him smile, because he knew she wanted to put him at ease. And she could, as no one else did. So much so that he needed to be on guard that he did not blurt out the truth about the lie.
No, he would not think of that now. For this moment, he would enjoy her company and drink in the sight of her bright eyes and bright smile. He joined her and Mrs. Porter who oversaw the division of the fruit mixture, so each household would have plenty. Miss Fenwick helped count out the members of each family, because some of the youngest children considered their cousins the same as sisters and brothers. They hurried because the wagon drivers were anxious to be on their way. If the roads between Meriweather Hall and the village froze, they could be treacherous.
Suddenly shouts came from behind Jonathan. Something slammed into the back of his head, then another in the shoulder. Looking back, he jumped aside before another gob of fruit hit his head. A child shrieked, then Mrs. Porter did as sticky fruit hit her right on the chin. Soon the air was filled with flying fruit. Most of the children were joining in, except for a few of the smallest ones who hid under the table. Even they were giggling with excitement.
Jonathan let out a bellow that worked as well in the kitchen as it had on the battlefield. Some of the children froze, their hands filled with fruit. Others quickly dropped the fruit into the bowls beside them, but three older boys at the far end of the table kept throwing fruit at each other.
He walked past the children with guilty faces and reached for the arm the closest boy. As he grabbed him, the boy released his handful of fruit. It flew across the table and hit Cat on the cheek. She was holding the other two boys firmly by their collars. All the boys gasped, and their faces turned gray.
“Enough,” she said as calmly as if they were having a comfortable coze in the parlor upstairs. “Clean up this mess. All three of you.” She turned, giving Jonathan a good view of the fruit clinging to her face and hair. “The rest of you take what's left in your bowls to Mrs. Porter. Let's hope there will be enough for pies for everyone this year.”
Silence clamped on the kitchen as the littlest ones crawled from beneath the table, and the others did as Cat ordered. Jonathan released the boy he held and went around the table to where Cat stood, her arms folded in front of her as she kept a close eye on the children.
“Are you all right?” he asked quietly.
“Annoyed, but all right.”
“May I?”
“May you what?”
With a smile, he peeled the fruit off her face. His expression wavered when he saw the pink spot left behind. If a man had been the one to leave such a mark, Jonathan would have challenged him to grass before breakfast, but dueling a boy would be ridiculous. The boys had not considered that anyone could be injured.
“There are more bits in your hair,” he said, keeping his voice light. “Hold still.”
As soon as he ran his fingers through her loosened hair to sift out the fruit, he knew he was being foolish. Scents of some flowery perfume, mixed with the honey sweetness of the fruit, flavored every breath he took until his head spun.
Moments ago her soft skin against his fingertips had daydreams urging him to slide his fingers along her eyebrows, her cheek, her chin, her lips.
He pulled back before he could surrender to that fantasy. When she yelped, he realized he had pulled her hair because his fingers had become attached to the fruit in it. He started to apologize, but she waved him away and thanked him before going to help Mrs. Porter.
He should be grateful she showed more sense than he did, but all he felt was sad and empty...as if he had lost a precious gift before it had even been his.
Chapter Eleven
C
at stood in the middle of the great hall and tried not to shiver as she compared her sketches to the room. She had come here after bidding Vera a good trip back to the village. Sophia had another fitting today, and then the
modiste
was going up to the nursery to measure the children for costumes for the ball. They would not attend long but were excited about the chance to have costumes and to see what the adults wore. That and making sure the wedding decorations were in place gave Cat the perfect excuse to avoid Mme. Dupont.
On her sketch, she needed to move one of the great iron chandeliers closer to the hearth at the back of the hall. That meant she would need to reconsider how she would drape greenery from the rafters around it. The chandelier would be lit with great, thick candles, and she must take care that none of the flames came too close to the greens.
Something tickled Cat's nose. She turned to rub it away as she worked quickly to refine her sketch.
The itch continued. Oh, no! She hoped she was not getting a cold. She did not want to be sick for her sister's wedding. Then she drew in a deep breath and knew it was not a cold.
Smoke!
She raced across the great hall and out into the corridor.
“Fire!” she shouted. “There is a fire in the house!”
The alarm was taken up by a footman in the hallway, and he yelled up the stairs. Footsteps pounded down while Ogden appeared out of a nearby room.
Cat did not wait to hear his instructions to the footmen. She turned toward the kitchen stairwell. Smoke billowed up the steps and into the hallway. Ignoring the shouts behind her, she raced to the kitchen.
Her eyes burned as every breath she took felt as if it were on fire. Smoke hid the bottom of the stairs. She pushed forward at top speed. Such thick smoke could overcome anyone in the kitchen quickly. Grasping an apron from a nail by the door, she covered her mouth and nose as she reeled forward.
Then the smoke seemed to collapse toward the floor. She stared at Jonathan who stood by the hearth, something in his outstretched hand. A salt cellar, she realized, as he slowly lowered his arm.
Mrs. Porter rushed forward to thank him for putting out the fire as Ogden and his footmen burst through a door on the other side of the kitchen, buckets of water at the ready.
“What happened?” asked Cat as everyone looked at Jonathan who stared at the smoky remains of the fire.
“That is what I would like to know.” He carefully reached in and pulled something from the embers. A piece of cotton. Even as he lifted it, oil dripped off it and sizzled as a smoky flame erupted. “I assume you recognize this, Mrs. Porter.” His eyes flared as the fire had.
“It is one of our aprons,” Mrs. Porter said, every word shaking with dismay. “But how did it get on the hearth?”
“Along with the lard container.” The tip of his boot rolled a broken crock from the hearth.
The cook frowned. “I never keep the lard near the hearth. It is too dangerous. I learned that when I was at my mother's knee.”
Cat put a gentle hand on the cook's arm. “No one is accusing you, Mrs. Porter. There were a lot of people in the kitchen today. Someone must have moved the container by accident.”
“And it could have been bumped onto the fire,” Ogden said as he motioned for the footmen to carry the water buckets back outside.
“Though why it would take so long to melt and catch fire baffles me.” Jonathan squatted by the hearth. “I would like to blame this on the children's fruit battle, but we would have smelled the smoke once we got them in the wagons and on their way. This must have happened later.”
“Which still means it could be an accident.” Cat saw the kitchen maids exchanging anxious glances. None of them wore a guilty expression, so she doubted one had bumped the lard onto the hearth by mistake. They were too well trained. So who had? “Jonathan, when did you smell the smoke? That might give us some idea when it started.”
Standing, he turned to her. His face was sooty, but the fury in his eyes was even more powerful. “I realized I forgot my coat, so I came to retrieve it. When I got here, the kitchen was empty, and the fire was blazing out of the hearth.”
“Mrs. Porter, isn't there usually someone in this part of the kitchen?”
She nodded. “But several of the girls had gone to deliver meals to the stable, and the rest were working with the footmen to make sure the dining room was ready. I was in the stillroom, checking that the fruit had been stored properly so it would not ferment before we made pies.” She pressed her apron to her stomach and blubbered, “Oh, Miss Catherine, I am sorry.”
Cat put her arm around the cook's shoulders and gave them a gentle squeeze. “No damage has been done other than a burned apron, a broken crock and our rattled nerves.”
Boots resounded on the steps, and her cousin came into the kitchen followed by Charles and Sir Nigel. She wondered what her neighbor was doing back at Meriweather Hall so soon, but now was not the time to satisfy her curiosity.
Not that she had a chance because Cousin Edmund asked what had happened. He nodded when Jonathan gave him a quick explanation. His smile returned as he clapped Jonathan in the back. “Well done, Bradby. You saved us again.”
As her cousin continued to congratulate Jonathan, Cat saw dismay battling with relief on his smoke-stained face. It was the same expression he had worn the day he had dived into the waves to save the child being washed out to sea. He had looked exactly like that when they went ice skating, and he had thought Gemma was in danger.
What was it about being lauded as a hero that unsettled him?
Sir Nigel paused by Cat and asked if she was all right.
“I am fine, thank you. Did Lillian come with you?”
His smile became a caricature of his usual jolly one. Lines she had never noticed cut deeply into his cheeks. “I won't have her here while someone feels free to leave such a hideous message in your wood. Actually that is why I came today. I thought your cousin might wish to have you and Miss Meriweather and the children come to my estate until the perpetrator is hunted down.”
“That is kind of you, Sir Nigel.” The words tasted bitter on her tongue. “Did Lord Meriweather agree?” She could not imagine her cousin would have, because decisions remained impossible for him.
“He acquiesced to Lord Northbridge who prefers to keep his family beneath this roof. I hope they don't come to rue that.”
“Thank you for offering,” she was able to say more sincerely now that she knew they would not have to stay at Sir Nigel's house which was filled with his absurd artwork.
Walking away, Sir Nigel said, “Ah, Bradby, you are ever the right man to have around in an emergency. Good for you for stepping up and saving the day.”
Jonathan muttered something, then headed toward the stairs. He left without another word to anyone.
Cat snatched his bright green coat from a nearby chair and followed. By the time she caught up with him, he was almost to the stairs leading to the upper floors.
“Jonathan!” she called.
He paused, surprising her 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 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.”
“Why not?”
He scowled at her. “Cat, I asked youâ”
“You said I could ask anything except why you feel the need to go on proving yourself a hero. I asked why you don't want to talk of it.” She closed her mouth before she could tell him that she did not want him to die as Roland had in an attempt to show everyone that he deserved their respect.
A faint smile drifted across his lips, but his expression grew sad. “Don't try to trip up a solicitor with words, Cat. You won't get anywhere.”
“I don't want to âget anywhere.' I want to know what I can do to help you.”
He stared at her as if memorizing every inch of her face. He sighed and shook his head. “There's nothing you can do.”
“There must be something.”
He put heavy hands on her shoulders and shook his head. “No, Cat, you must accept that even you can't cure everything. This is between God and me. The only thing you can do is pray for me.”
She pulled back as her tears made him blur in front of her. The one thing he had asked was the one thing she had tried to do over and over and had failed. She stared at the floor, wishing she knew how to fix her connection with God. By the time she raised her eyes, still having no answer, Jonathan had walked away.
* * *
The wind was icy cold when Jonathan stepped from his carriage at the top of the steepest street in the village. The ride from Meriweather Hall had been even more frigid because Cat had not spoken to him other than to thank him for letting her join him as far as the vicarage. She planned to help decorate the sanctuary for Christmas with Miss Fenwick and some of the other women from the church.
He should have been grateful. If Cat had asked why he had behaved so strangely after the fire in the kitchen, he could not be honest with her. The idea of lying to her further was repugnant, but Sir Nigel's words had been like a fist to his gut. A painful accusation that he was not the man that they believed him to be. Though the cloak of hero had never fit comfortably on his shoulders, now it seemed to be grinding down upon him, a constant reminder that he had been false with the people who mattered the most to him.
Just as his parents had.
After all his efforts to be unlike his parents, to live a life filled with honesty and no delusion, he had fallen into the trap of being too exactly the same. Sir Nigel's words had proven that.
Maybe he should take his leave of Meriweather Hall.
A coward's choice,
came the taunting whisper in his mind. He wanted to shout back that he
was
a coward. He did not dare to tell the truth and lose his friends' esteem. Or, even more important, to lose Cat's esteem. Thinking of her regarding him with disappointment and disgust made his stomach twist like a damp washrag.
Even so, he had hidden his thoughts behind an unemotional mask when Miss Fenwick had emerged from the vicarage. The vicar's sister had worn a broad smile, but it disappeared the instant Cat stepped from the carriage. Though no words had been spoken, the vicar's sister must have discerned the truth from Cat's face.
He wished he knew why she had raised a wall between them after he had said there was nothing she could do but pray for God to help him. He had thought it was a good solution, when Cat could not help him otherwise, because she did not know the truth. Instead, his request had driven her away, and he could not guess why.
As he had left her and Miss Fenwick in the vicarage's garden, he said only that he would return to the church when his business was completed. If the ladies were not finished, he would wait or assist them as they wished. He had received a perfunctory “Thank you” from Cat.
Watching his step because the cobbles on the steep street were slick with ice in places, Jonathan descended toward the sea. He planned to talk with the fishermen. His comment to Cat yesterday about trying not to trip up a solicitor with words had gotten him thinking. Maybe
he
could trick the fishermen into telling him something about the smugglers that was not known at Meriweather Hall.
He caught the movement of draperies, and he guessed someone had taken a glimpse to see who was skimble-skamble enough to be out on such a cold day. He would have to choose his words with utmost care, because the villagers already were suspicious of outsiders.
A door was open into the street just past where the beck disappeared under the buildings. Was the smugglers' tunnel connected to the building with the open door? Deciding he would take a peek inside as he passed, he slowed. His feet almost went out beneath him, but he caught the rail beside nearby steps. He inched forward and looked in.
It was a store. He edged inside and away from the door to a spot where he might not be noticed. He could not imagine a better place to
listen
to what the locals had to say about the smugglers. He doubted they would speak openly, but he might gain some insight into the criminals who lived among the villagers.
Wares were stacked everywhere with no order he could discern. Fishing gear mixed in with bolts of fabric. Foodstuffs filled shelves along with cutlery. The wooden floor was filthy, and the boards had been eroded by many sand-caked boots.
Even so, more than a dozen people were crammed into the tight space. Two stood behind a low wooden counter, and he guessed they were the shopkeeper and his wife. Both were bent from long hours of work, but their clothing was clean and unpatched, though of an odd collection of colors and patterns that even he would disdain. He suspected the wife had stitched their clothing from fabric that did not sell.
Drawing his hat lower over his brow, Jonathan leaned back against a barrel that had a fishy smell. It was not marked in any manner, and he could not help wondering if it had been brought ashore by the smugglers. He pushed that out of his head and concentrated on the hushed conversation by the counter.
A woman facing the storekeeper said, “It will be strange to have Miss Sophia move away from Sanctuary Bay. The old lord is gone, and soon she will be.”