A Hero for Christmas

by Jo Ann Brown

  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 Edm
und 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.”

  Catherine laughed as she walked around the table past Jonathan and sat. “I daresay they would simply use the ice as a path to bring their goods ashore.”

  “True.”

  She felt around with her toes to find her sketchbook. Where was it? Had it slid away when she got up to go to her sister? She could not bend down to peer under the table. That would bring more questions, which she wanted to avoid.

  Poking about with her toes, she found nothing. She stretched out her leg, soundlessly tapping the floor. When her foot struck something solid, she lowered her eyes when Jonathan looked up in surprise. She had not intended to bump her foot into his.

  She breathed a silent sigh of relief when her toes discovered the sketchbook to the left of her chair. She drew it closer to her. She carefully avoided Jonathan’s eyes as he began to talk to her cousin about when they should call on Sir Nigel and Lord Ashland and demand their help against the smugglers.

  A shout came from outside the breakfast-parlor. Jonathan’s black-and-white pup rushed in. He ran to Catherine and put his nose on her lap. Before she could react, he hurried to her sister. He looked up at her with absolute devotion, then loped around the table to Cousin Edmund before finally hurrying to Jonathan.

  He grasped the puppy by the scruff and set himself on his feet.

  “Forgive me, Meriweather, ladies. I will insist that this mongrel stay in the stables.”

  “Nonsense,” Sophia said, patting the puppy’s head. “Charles and the children will be arriving any day now, and I know that Gemma and Michael will be thrilled to have such a playmate.”

  “He can stay out there until they arrive.”

  “Jonathan,” Catherine said, “it would be better if the puppy stayed inside. A barking dog will be less welcoming than a gamekeeper and his mother should the smugglers arrive here.”

  His eyes narrowed, and she almost recoiled before the formidable rage in them. She wondered how many of Napoleon’s men had quailed before him.

  “We must keep everyone safe,” she added quietly.

  “I agree.” He released the puppy who ran to Catherine again, as if he understood that she had kept him from being sent outside.

  Slowly Jonathan sat. He pushed his plate away and stared at the middle of the table.

  Into the silence, Sophia asked, “What do you call him?”

  When he did not answer, Catherine said, “Jonathan has not yet decided on a name.”

  “Really?” Sophia gave her a single pointed glance, and Catherine knew her sister was expressing her surprise at how Catherine spoke of Mr. Bradby. “As we are all among friends here—” She shot Catherine another questioning look. “I think we can come up with a name for him.”

  “We could call him what he is perhaps. Big Bother,” Catherine said with a strained laugh as she snuck the puppy a piece of sausage. She wished Jonathan would say something.

  “How about Star? He has a star marking on his forehead,” Miss Meriweather offered.

  “That sounds like the name for a horse,” Cousin Edmund said. “You could always call him Jobby.”

  “Why?” asked Catherine as she held out her hand under the table. The dog’s tongue brushed it lightly, and another piece of sausage vanished.

  “Jobby dog is a Town term for someone who likes to have a good time, and I daresay, few of God’s creatures enjoy themselves more than this one.”

  “I think that is a fun name.” She slid her own plate toward the center of the table, directly into Jonathan’s view.

  He blinked and raised his head when she asked him what he thought of calling his dog Jobby. He agreed, but she wondered if he had heard anything they had said. His gaze was turned inward. She could not help thinking how he had looked exactly the same before he had dived into the sea.

  Cousin Edmund asked Sophia to help him once more with the accounts before her wedding. She agreed and suggested Catherine come with them.

  “I think I will take Jobby out for some air,” Catherine said.

  “I can do that,” Jonathan interjected. “You must have more important things to do.”

  She did not want to admit that he was right. She had planned to spend the morning with the footmen as she outlined where she wanted holiday greens hung in the great hall, but she had not finished her sketch for that.

  “I could use some fresh air myself,” she replied. “A brisk walk along the shore would be wonderful. It will be pleasant to stroll without looking for mermaid tears.”

  “You should not have to handle that great beast on your own.” He squared his shoulders. “I will be glad to go with you if you would like co
mpany.”

  “I had planned to ask Foggin,” she said with a smile and a glance toward her sister who gave her a slight nod of approval, “but I suspect he would be happy to have someone to help him keep Jobby under control. Let me get my wraps, and I will meet you in the garden.”

  The hint of a smile returned to his face, and warmth spread through her as if she had stepped out into summer sunshine. He took her hand and bowed over it. His thumb brushed her palm, a tentative exploration that delighted her. As he raised his head, his gaze fused with hers. She could not have looked away, even if she had wanted to. She did not. She wanted to study his blue eyes that changed shade with each emotion. Now they were as deep a blue as his coat, shining brightly.

  He hastily released her hand and stepped back. “In the garden then. I shall send for Foggin, if you would like.”

  “Thank you.” She struggled to say those two words without her voice splintering.

  If Sophia had not come over to link her arm with Catherine’s, she doubted she could have moved. She yearned to return to the moment when he held her hand, lightly caressing her sensitive palm.

  Her sister said nothing as they went up the stairs and to Catherine’s room. Sophia sat while Catherine put away her sketchbook and sent Hubbard, the maid who served them both, to collect her outerwear. The dark-haired young woman must have guessed something was amiss, because as soon as she brought Catherine’s dark navy pelisse as well as her bonnet and gloves, she excused herself to tend to a task in Sophia’s room.

  “You and Mr. Bradby are becoming good friends, I see,” Sophia said as soon as the door closed behind their maid.

  “He is a nice man and an intelligent one.” She pulled on the pelisse and reached for her bonnet. “Did you know that solicitors used to be paid by the word?”

  Sophia ignored her attempt to change the subject. “Just be careful. I don’t want to see you hurt again.”

  “Hurt? Jonathan would never hurt me.”

  “Not intentionally, but his attempt to rescue that child has given me pause.”

  “Why?”