by Jo Ann Brown
“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 merma
id 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.
