Читать книгу A Bride for the Baron - Jo Ann Brown - Страница 12

Chapter Three

The next morning, Edmund found only Lady Meriweather seated at the table in the breakfast parlor. She put down the newspaper she had been reading.

“Good morning, Edmund,” she said with the warmth that suggested he was her son rather than her late husband’s distant cousin.

“And to you, my lady. Do not let me interrupt your reading.”

She laughed. “This newspaper was sent from London. It is nearly a week old, so waiting longer to read it is no problem.”

Helping himself to eggs and sausages, he placed his plate at the seat across from the baroness. She poured him a steaming cup of coffee from the silver pot that had been left on a ceramic tile by her right hand. He reached for a muffin from the basket that was set beside him by one of the well-trained footmen.

He buttered it as he said, “I have not had a chance to thank you for making arrangements for Mr. Fenwick and his sister to stay at Meriweather Hall.”

“It was my pleasure. Dear Vera has been a steadfast friend to my daughters, and it is not as if we don’t have the room.” Her laugh sparkled through the space. “She tells me that you have agreed to help with rebuilding the church.”

“It is my place.”

“To provide the funds, yes, but Vera suggested you were going to provide more than that.”

He poured cream into his cup and stirred it. Setting the pitcher on the table, he wondered when the two women had talked. No doubt, it had been after he had scurried away like a hurt child from Sir Nigel’s barbed comments. He snuck a glance at the lady across the table from him. Had Miss Fenwick told her about that conversation? If so, he saw no sign of pity on her face.

“You know of my work before I came to Meriweather Hall,” he said when he realized the lady expected him to answer. “I know something of building projects.”

“Quite a bit, according to my new son-in-law.” She chuckled. “Jonathan mentioned something about seeking your advice for the larger house he plans to build for him and Cat.”

“He said nothing about that to me.”

“Because he knew you would help when the time came. You, Jonathan and Charles learned to depend on each other’s skills in the army, and that will never change.” She picked up her coffee cup. “You have been given a great gift, Edmund. Such friends do not come along often.”

“I realize that.”

“Have you heard more about the tunnel that led into the church?” She must be as curious as he was to learn how and when the smugglers had gotten into the church.

“Sims brought me a report this morning. The tunnel appears to have been collapsed completely. We cannot guess where it might go.”

“Nothing aboveground suggests its direction or destination?”

He was impressed with the baroness’s question, though he should not have been. All the Meriweather women had sharp minds and cared deeply about the estate and the people of Sanctuary Bay.

With a shake of his head, he said, “The smugglers are too careful to allow that. Otherwise they would have been found out years ago.”

“I see.” After Lady Meriweather took a sip of her coffee, she changed the subject to her plans for the gardens once the weather was warm enough to plant flowers among the hedges and perennials. He listened with half an ear as he thought of what she had said. He and Northbridge and Bradby had been melded together in the crucible of war. That bond had been strengthened as they had faced the smugglers’ treachery since he had first arrived in Sanctuary Bay. He could depend on their assistance again, if necessary.

He hoped it would not be, because Bradby was on his honeymoon and Northbridge and his family were settling into his ancestral estate in the south of England. But it was good to remember that, if he needed them, they would come.

Maybe fulfilling Miss Fenwick’s request to help rebuild the church would not be impossible, after all.

* * *

When Foggin came to announce a guest later that morning, Edmund assumed either the vicar or Miss Fenwick wished to discuss the plans for rebuilding the church. Instead, a dark-haired man with an air of arrogance strode into the room as if he were lord of the estate and Edmund his least minion. Edmund suspected women would find Lord Ashland handsome, but his sharp features and hollow cheeks reminded Edmund of how disdainful the viscount had been when Edmund went to his estate in hopes of obtaining help in halting the smugglers.

“Ashland!” Edmund pushed himself to his feet. “I had not expected you to call.”

“This is no social visit.” He drew off his gloves and tossed them in the direction of Foggin.

The footman scrambled to catch them both along with the greatcoat the viscount shrugged off. The poor footman looked so dismayed that Edmund wanted to assure him that Ashland treated everyone with the same contempt.

“I heard,” Ashland went on, as if he had not taken note of the footman, “about the fire at the Sanctuary Bay church, and I thought I should come and discover how bad it was.”

“It was very bad.” He hid his surprise. The viscount had never shown the least bit of interest about anything in the village. A hint of suspicion bubbled through him. If the viscount were the man the smugglers called his qualityship, he would be curious if anything pointing to the smugglers had been discovered in the ruins. “The building is completely destroyed.”

“I am sorry to hear that confirmed. Rumors reach one’s ears all the time, but I prefer to discover the truth for myself. If you have no objections, I would like to ride into the village and see what remains.”

“There is not much to see.”

“Even so, I would like to see it with my own two eyes.”

“Certainly.” He paused, then said, “As you have removed your outer coat, I assume there is more you wish to discuss with me before we leave for the village.” He gestured toward a chair near the hearth. “We may as well be comfortable by the fire before we venture out into the cold.”

“Quite so.” Ashland selected a chair as if he were doing Edmund a great favor.

How did one come to possess such hauteur? Ashland’s bearing suggested that his place was at the center in the universe and that everyone should acknowledge it. Did that mien come from being raised as a peer from birth? Could it be learned later in life? Not that he wanted to act as self-important as Ashland, but he could use the confidence such comportment inspired.

Another item to put on his list for his next conversation with Northbridge. He could ask his friend and former military commander such questions without the ridicule he would face if he addressed those questions to Ashland. That lesson he had learned all too well when he had asked Lady Eloisa about life among the ton. She had answered him, but later made a jest about it at his expense. The Beau Monde could be scathing to outsiders too eager to join the elite of the elite. They labeled those people encroaching mushrooms, but he had not expected, as a new baron, to be described in such terms.

Not until he had overheard Lady Eloisa use that exact term along with his name.

Edmund sat after offering to ring for a cup of something warm for the viscount. When Ashland said that was unnecessary, Edmund asked, “What did you want to discuss?”

“Rumors.”

“You will need to be more specific. Sanctuary Bay is always rife with rumors.” He allowed himself a cool smile. “Some are true. The trick, as I learned during my time in the army, was to determine which are true and which are simple conjecture fueled by repetition.”

Ashland’s eyes narrowed, and Edmund knew that the viscount had not anticipated such a retort from him. If Ashland thought him nothing but a harebrained newcomer to the Polite World, reminding the viscount that Edmund had seen battle on the Continent was not a bad thing.

“That is true,” Ashland said, continuing to appraise Edmund. Was he surprised by what he saw? No hint of his thoughts were revealed on his carefully schooled face.

“Are there particular rumors that you wish to discuss?”

“Rumors about the smugglers who work out of Sanctuary Bay.”

Edmund kept his fingers from digging into the upholstery and his shoulders from stiffening. The viscount’s words disclosed more than his face did, and Edmund suspected his cool composure was a pose. Two could play that game, so he sank back in his chair, crossing one foot over the opposite knee.

“Again,” he said, “I need you to be more specific. Smugglers and their exploits are a major source of rumors throughout Britain.”

“True. I shall be specific.” He pyramided his fingers in front of his face. “Rumor says that the vicar and his sister are now living here at Meriweather Hall. Is that true?”

“Yes.” He was shocked by the abrupt turn in the conversation. Why would Ashland be interested in where the Fenwicks were staying in the wake of the fire? “I thought we were talking about rumors of the smugglers.”

“We are. Other rumors have reached my ears. Rumors of smugglers using the church as a place to store their shipments.”

It took every ounce of his control to ask in a placid voice, “Are you accusing the Fenwicks of assisting the smugglers?”

“The facts speak for themselves.”

“Do they?” He lowered his foot to the floor as he met Ashland’s stare with his own. “Then you clearly are hearing more than rumor, Ashland. The facts are not that straightforward to me. I have seen what was left behind in the church’s cellar, and I have seen the Fenwicks’ faces when they heard that information.” He faltered as he recalled the pain and grief on Miss Fenwick’s face during the long ride back from Norwich. Tears had glistened in her eyes when she had beheld what was left of the only home she had known for the past ten years. The memory of her face as she had fought to remain strong for her brother and his parishioners was etched on his mind. “I believe they have been victims, twice over. First, when the smugglers used Mr. Fenwick’s church for their crimes, and second, when the church and the vicarage were burned.”

“You come to their defense easily.”

“The truth is easy.” Keeping his answers short prevented his anger from bursting forth.

The viscount smiled coldly. “Truth, like beauty, is bought by judgment of the eye, if I may misquote Shakespeare. You rush to the defense of the Fenwicks.”

“Because they are, as I have said, victims in this heinous crime.”

“Maybe they are, but I am not as certain of that as you are.”

Edmund borrowed the viscount’s chilly expression. “Why?”

Again he sensed that his question had astounded Ashland, because the viscount did not shoot back an answer. When Edmund had gone to Ashland’s estate last year to ask for his help in halting the smugglers, he had been shocked at the viscount’s disdain and disinterest in taking action with him. He had stuttered over his words and left feeling like a pup with its tail curled beneath its legs...as he had when Lady Eloisa had tossed him aside.

“You are a newcomer to Sanctuary Bay, Meriweather,” the viscount answered as he regained his poise. “I have lived nearby my whole life.”

“Then you should know that the Fenwicks would never be mixed up with the smugglers.”

“No?” He laughed icily. “I would leave you in your ignorance, Meriweather, but the situation requires action. May I suggest your first action would be to speak to the vicar and his sister about assistance they have offered the smugglers?”

Edmund looked away from the triumphant glitter in Ashland’s eyes. The viscount must have directed the conversation to this point so he could shock Edmund with such a revelation. No, it was not a revelation. Only innuendo.

“I shall.” Standing, he said, “And there is no time like the present. The Fenwicks have gone to see what they can recover from the church, as well as any personal possessions. Why don’t we go and ask them together if your insinuations have any basis in truth?”

“I thought the church was completely destroyed.” Ashland remained seated, but his smile had vanished into a deep scowl.

“The building was, but items can survive even such an inferno.”

He leaned forward, his eyes slitting again. “What did you see when you climbed into the cellar?”

“I see gabble-grinders have been doing a strapping job of spreading the tale of my actions at the church.” He folded his arms, after ringing for a footman to bring the viscount’s outer wraps, as well as his own.

“Why are you avoiding giving me an answer to my question?” He set himself on his feet. “Are you trying to hide something, Meriweather?”

“Are you accusing me of being in collusion with the smugglers?”

“You? Working with the smugglers?” Ashland surprised him by laughing.

The viscount was not laughing at his question. Ashland was laughing at him. And why not? A baron who could make no decisions was hardly a man fit to give the smugglers orders of when and where to obtain their illegal wares. Did the whole world know of his humiliating affliction? It would seem so.

* * *

Vera heard the rattle of harness and carriage wheels and looked up from where she was placing a broken plate back on the ground. Brushing away the cloud of ashes that swirled on the sea wind, she was not surprised to see the Meriweather carriage slowing to a stop between the ruins of the church and the charred vicarage.

Happiness burst through her as unstoppable as the waves rolling out of the sea. And just as powerful. She was glad that Lord Meriweather had come from Meriweather Hall. He was calm and sturdy and...handsome. She ignored the end of that thought. He made her feel that her problems were his. He made her feel safe. He made her feel...lovely.

Was she addled? The last time she had let her mind lead her in that direction, she had almost destroyed her brother’s career. But lying to herself was foolish. When she was with the baron, she felt as if she were someone special, someone who could be described as more than the vicar’s sister, someone who had worth of her own.

The carriage door opened. She wiped her hands on her apron and straightened. Her spine protested, and she realized she had spent hours bent over as she picked through the ashes around the vicarage. With the roof falling in, she had not dared to go inside. Some of the men who had fought the flames had tossed some items out of the vicarage’s small kitchen, but only a handful of items had survived.

Her brother stared at the window where his office had been. He had not moved from that spot for the past hour. Her single attempt to comfort him had been for naught. When he’d asked her to leave him to his thoughts and prayers, she had agreed.

Shouts sounded around what remained of the church. The men working there had noticed Lord Meriweather’s carriage. They paused in their tasks, and she wondered if they were as eager as she was to listen to any plans the baron might have for rebuilding.

Her welcoming smile wavered when Lord Meriweather stepped out of the carriage, every inch of him bristling with the fury displayed on his face. That anger was hidden when another man emerged from the carriage.

Lord Ashland! What was the viscount doing here? He seldom came to the village, though he had attended services at the church several times in the past year.

Vera walked toward the men, curious what had caused even-tempered Lord Meriweather to wear such a grim expression. “Good day, my lords,” she called.

They paused when they reached her and greeted her politely. It was clear they had other issues on their minds.

“I’m glad you are here,” she said when silence fell between them. “The men have been working hard, as you’ll be able to see.”

“They aren’t the only ones.” Lord Meriweather’s face transformed as he smiled.

“What do you mean?”

“It appears you have been poking around the ashes, too, Miss Fenwick. You have a line of gray streaking your cheek.” He raised his hand, then drew it back with a glance at Lord Ashland who watched without comment.

“Oh, that must have happened one of the times I pushed aside my hair.” She looked at her filthy hands.

“Allow me.” Lord Meriweather pulled out a lawn handkerchief and handed it to her. When she looked at him in confusion, because she was not sure which of her cheeks was dirty, he pointed to the left side of his face.

“Thank you,” she said as she dabbed at the soot on her face. When she looked at the handkerchief, she was shocked how dirty her cheek must have been. She wondered why nobody else had mentioned it. Maybe they had not wanted to embarrass her, telling her that she looked like a chimney sweep.

She noticed Lord Ashland walking toward her brother. Maybe the viscount could offer Gregory solace on this difficult day.

“Have you found anything that was saved?” asked Lord Meriweather, drawing her eyes back to his.

She saw concern within those dark pools, but the storm that had raged there when he had exited the carriage could not be hidden. She almost asked what was amiss. She halted herself before she could overstep her place as the vicar’s sister.

“The cooking pans are blackened, but they can be cleaned and made useable again.” She looked at where her brother talked to Lord Ashland. “Not one of Gregory’s books was spared. I haven’t seen him this upset since...” She halted herself before she could spill the truth of what had happened before Gregory was given the living in Sanctuary Bay by a very generous Lord Meriweather. “There aren’t many things he prized as much as he did his collection of books.”

Lord Meriweather sighed. “He is welcome to use any books in Meriweather Hall.”

“Thank you, and he will avail himself of them, but he had some favorite volumes he will sorely miss.”

“I am sorry to hear that. I have contacts in London who may be able to find copies to replace them.”

Vera smiled. “I will let him know.” London prices would be too dear for a vicar, but she appreciated Lord Meriweather’s offer. She hoped Gregory would, as well, though knowing copies existed that he could not afford would add to his frustration.

She started to put the soiled handkerchief in her apron pocket, but Lord Meriweather said, “I can take that.”

“Are you sure? It’s dirty.”

He gave her a sad smile. “I daresay by the time I leave here, I will be far dirtier.” He held out his hand.

“That is true.”

His troubled expression drew his mouth down farther at the corners. “May I ask you a question?”

“Certainly. What about?” She placed the handkerchief on his outstretched palm.

A gust of wind threatened to steal it. She clamped her hand down on the fine linen at the exact same time he closed his fingers around hers. A shock rippled up her arm, a shock that was startling and pleasing at the same time. He drew in a quick breath, and she looked up at him. She saw her conflicting reaction mirrored on his face.

“Miss Fenwick...” His voice was as breathless as if he had run down the village’s steep street and back up. Twice.

“My lord...” She was unsure what to say after that, but she must say something. She could not stand with her hand in his. After what the footman had seen at Meriweather Hall, gossip would spread far and fast...exactly as it had last time.

That memory spurred her to slip her hand from his. “Thank you, my lord, for lending me your handkerchief.”

He did not reply as he gazed at her, as if he had never taken note of her before, and he was intrigued by what he saw.

Vera turned away as someone shouted, glad for the excuse to sever the invisible link between them. She closed her eyes and prayed, Dear Father, I must not forget what happened before. Lead me on the path I should walk, the path that makes sure I never risk Gregory’s work for You.

When she opened her eyes, Lord Meriweather was loping toward a man by the cellar. The man was waving excitedly to him.

Curiosity sent Vera after him at a slower pace among the gravestones that seemed lonely without the church standing guard over them. Both Lord Ashland and her brother passed her; by the time she reached the hole, the men were grouped around something on the ground. Lord Ashland was looking over the side but stepped back hastily before someone bumped into him and sent him down to the bottom of the cellar.

“Just brought it up, my lord,” someone said from the center of the group. “Can you believe it?”

Squeezing among the men, Vera gasped when somebody took her arm and popped her out of the crowd like a grain of sand between her fingers. She smiled at Gregory when he drew her to stand beside him. He gestured toward the ground in front of them.

“Oh, my!” She stared at the baptismal font that rested in three pieces by the cellar hole. The pedestal had broken twice, but the bowl was intact. Smoke and water stains brought the carved figures on the stone into higher relief. “I thought it was shattered.”

“So did I.” Lord Meriweather bent to examine the ancient font. One side was badly chipped. “Astounding! When I saw it in the cellar, I was sure it was destroyed.”

The men grinned.

A tall man she recognized as Luther Hinchliff, the village cooper, said, “We thought so, too, then realized the broken pieces were from the ceiling. The pedestal will have to be put back together, but otherwise it’s useable.”

“We can put it in the new church,” Gregory said, and Vera patted his arm. “God has shown His love by allowing this vital part of our church to come through the flames. Let us thank Him.” He took her left hand and reached out to the man on his left.

When a hand grasped her right one, the warmth coursing through her at the simple touch could have come only from Lord Meriweather.

She bowed her head as Gregory led them in prayer and added her silent thanks that her brother seemed revitalized by the discovery. A good night’s sleep had helped, too, but she had been worried about his state of mind when he had stood by the vicarage so long.

Everyone chorused heartfelt amens when Gregory finished. He reached past her to shake the hands of the men who had brought the font up from the cellar without damaging it further.

Beside her, Lord Meriweather said, “It’s a beginning.”

“Yes,” she said, unable to stop smiling. “We may not have a roof over our heads when we worship, but we can catch heaven’s rain to baptize our newest members.”

“A lovely thought, Miss Fenwick.” He squeezed her hand, and she pulled in a sharp breath. She had not realized he still held it, for it seemed natural to have her fingers enfolded within his. “With this beginning to inspire us, who knows what other blessings lie ahead of us?”

“Blessings? Finally some good news.” The voice came from behind her. She drew her hand out of Lord Meriweather’s and turned as the others did to see a pudgy man. His greatcoat was worn at the elbows, and the collar was frayed. His dark hair needed to be cut. Any hint of a shine had vanished from his boots.

Lord Ashland stepped forward. “Ah, Brooks, I should have known you would be here posthaste.” He motioned toward the rest of them. “You know the vicar and Miss Fenwick, of course. Have you met the new baron?”

The chubby man nodded his head toward Vera and her brother, then dipped his head more deeply toward Lord Meriweather. “Haven’t had the pleasure until now, though I did see you at Sir Nigel’s fall assembly. Too crowded to get to you so we might speak, my lord, that night. So many art lovers eager to admire Sir Nigel’s latest masterpieces. I assumed eventually our paths would cross again.” Mr. Brooks looked from the ruins of the church to the burned-out vicarage. “Vicar, I would guess you are the best one to bring me up-to-date on this tragedy. If you have the time, that is...”

“Of course, Mr. Brooks,” her brother said.

Mr. Brooks motioned for Gregory to walk with him away from the others. When Lord Ashland made to follow, Mr. Brooks gave him a stern look that stopped him in midstep.

The viscount scowled, then stamped toward the carriage. “Coming, Meriweather?” he called over his shoulder.

“In a few minutes.”

Vera was grateful that she stood far enough away from the viscount so she could not discern the words he growled under his breath.

Lord Meriweather watched Lord Ashland for a moment, then shook his head and sighed. He clasped his hands behind his back. “Miss Fenwick, who is Brooks?”

“Cuthbert Brooks is the local justice of the peace.”

“That man is the justice of the peace?”

Vera kept her voice low. “Do not let his self-effacing image fool you. He is a brilliant man when it comes to keeping the peace in the Sanctuary Bay parish.”

“He has been of little use with stopping the smugglers.”

“But there has been less violence than in other places along the shore.”

“Possibly because the smugglers know better than to upset their well-placed leader.”

“That is something I cannot forget,” she whispered.

“Nor I.”

Vera was astonished when Lord Meriweather glanced at where Lord Ashland was climbing into the carriage. Did the baron have suspicions about the viscount’s involvement with the smugglers?

She had heard enough whispers to know that the smugglers took their orders from someone of wealth and prestige. The viscount fit that description, as did Sir Nigel. Mr. Brooks was not as plump in the pockets as the other two, but he held much sway in the parish as the justice of the peace.

“As a good host,” Lord Meriweather said with a sigh, “I should escort Ashland back to Meriweather Hall. I have no idea why he wanted to come here.” He glanced at the baptismal font.

“With the recovery of the font,” she said, “the parishioners are going to be even more eager to have the church rebuilt.”

“I agree.”

“We need to start making plans for the interior. I can meet with you tomorrow whenever you wish. Or the next day if that is better.”

“If you think that is the best time...”

Vera kept her face serene, so he could not discern how sympathy welled up within her. The poor man could not make a single decision. Facing each one seemed to scourge him.

“Let’s not set a definite time now. I will make a list of what I think we need to do,” she said, “and, when I’m done, I will bring it to you for review. Your expertise will be invaluable.”

He nodded and turned to leave; then he paused. Facing her, he said, “One question, Miss Fenwick, if I may.”

“Of course. Any time.”

Again his smile came and went like lightning on a hot summer night. “It is a difficult question to ask. It has come to my attention that it is being said that you and your brother have offered assistance to the smugglers. Is there any truth in that rumor?”

“None!” Both anger and pain riveted her. Anger that he would give that rumor any credence. Pain that such a lie could lead to her brother losing the living in Sanctuary Bay.

“I’m glad to hear that.” He tipped his hat toward her. “I will see you at Meriweather Hall, Miss Fenwick. If you need anything, don’t hesitate to ask.”

She nodded, but she knew she would never be able to ask for what she needed most now: answers. She wanted to know who was spreading spurious tales about her and Gregory. She ached to discover if, upon first hearing them, Lord Meriweather had contemplated sending them away from Sanctuary Bay. And, as much, she longed to find out how she could halt herself from feeling the warmth of his touch, a warmth that could lead her into ruining everything...again.