A Hero for Christmas

by Jo Ann Brown

  “He saved Charles’s life, but I wonder if being proclaimed a hero hasn’t changed him. He may feel an obligation to repeat his great deed. After all, he jumped into the sea when the fishermen were far more prepared to save the child.”

  “I thought that was something he should be lauded for.”

  “It is, but I can’t forget how Roland Utting was determined to prove that he was brave, too. He ended up dead.”

  Catherine’s numb fingers somehow tied her bonnet ribbons, but she could not hook the frogs on her pelisse. She had never told her sister how Roland had asked her to wait for him, because he had asked her to say nothing to her family until he could return from the war to obtain her father’s blessing on their plans to marry. She had asked why they could not marry before he left, but he had been determined to prove that he was worthy of a baron’s daughter, and if he had been part of the push to defeat Napoleon, he believed he would win the respect that was so important to him. Nothing she had said had budged him from that opinion.

  So he had left and never came back.

  For the first time, she wondered if Jonathan had yearned to be a hero before he went into battle. Her fingers tightened on the braided frogs. Had he been desperate to prove himself to a woman he loved? But if that were so, that woman might still be in his life, even though he had not mentioned someone special.

  All the more reason for her to remember her plan to make sure Jonathan became no more than a friend to her. It was a good plan, and it was one she found simple to follow...until she spent time with him, and he made her laugh and remember how it felt to be lighthearted again.

  Standing, Sophia came over and began closing Catherine’s pelisse for her. “Listen to your big sister. Don’t get involved with another hero. It will only break your heart anew. Mr. Bradby is a nice man, and I will be grateful to him every day of my life for saving Charles’s life, but I don’t want to see you as sad as you were when the news of Roland’s death reached us. I don’t want you to be so hurt ever again.”

  Embracing her sister, Catherine whispered, “I don’t intend to be.”

  Chapter Five

  Jobby raced around the garden, first chasing a squirrel up a tree and then taking off after a rabbit in the bushes. Each time the pup rushed back when Jonathan called to him.

  “What a smart dog!” Catherine crowed before Jobby ran across the garden again, chasing a leaf that bounced along the ground.

  “Occasionally.” Jonathan chuckled when the pup barked at the leaf that was no longer moving. “One thing is for sure. He has a lot of energy.” He offered his arm to Cat.

  She did not hesitate. Not only was Foggin standing discreetly on the stone terrace where he had an excellent view of the whole garden, but she was sure that the layers of wool between her and Jonathan would blunt her reaction to being close to him. As soon as she placed her hand within his arm, she discovered how wrong she was. That lightning buzz sped through her anew. He put his gloved hand on hers as he led her over some uneven ground toward where Jobby still barked at the motionless leaf.

  She looked up at his face while he laughed as he related the puppy’s other bird-witted antics. She saw no sign of either the unsettling intensity or the silliness. He appeared more at ease than she had ever seen him. Was this how he had been before the war?

  She kept that question to herself, wanting to enjoy this peaceful moment. She drew in a deep breath of the cool fresh air that was flavored with the tang of salt.

  “I am glad that you and Cousin Edmund are in good pax again,” she said.

  “He accepted my apology and forgave me for being cantankerous, whether I deserved it or not.” He paused by the huge boulders that jutted up out of the earth and marked the outermost edge of the garden. “I half expected him to ask me to take my congé.”

  “He is happy you are here. I think he misses having other men to speak to. Before he inherited Papa’s title, he spent a lot of time among men with his construction work. Now he has to leave Meriweather Hall to find male company, and as Sir Nigel is the closest...” She grimaced.

  Jonathan chuckled. “Your cousin wants to avoid Sir Nigel because he apparently is eager for Meriweather to meet his great-niece.” His smile dropped away. “Oh, I shouldn’t have said that.”

  “Why not? Sir Nigel has always been a meddler, so I’m not surprised he wants to play matchmaker.”

  “So you don’t mind?”

  “Of course, I mind, but nobody will ever change Sir Nigel.” She looked directly at him, pushing back one side of her bonnet that the wind tried to curve around her face. “And my cousin can be stubborn when he wishes to be. He may have trouble making decisions, but he knew his heart when he stepped aside so my sister can marry Charles.”

  Jonathan nodded, and she noticed the tips of his ears were red. That was no surprise when the wind blustered cold from the beach. He picked up a stick and tossed it across the garden. Jobby took after it at top speed.

  “You sound as if you don’t like Sir Nigel,” Jonathan said as the puppy pounced on the stick and began chewing on it. “Not that I would blame you if you didn’t. The man is too much in love with the sound of his own voice, and, coming from a solicitor, that is saying a lot.”

  “I don’t like or dislike him. He is a neighbor, so I must treat him kindly.”

  “Now that sounds even colder than your first words.”

  “You are right.” She gave him a quick smile. “I need to choose my words more carefully.”

  “Or your neighbors.”

  She laughed as she had not since before her father had became ill. Jonathan’s droll tone along with his somber expression tickled her.

  “I don’t dislike Sir Nigel himself,” she said. “It’s his art.”

  He grinned as they continued strolling through the garden.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “Your lip curls as you spit out his art, as if you took a bite of something foul.”

  She watched Jobby pick up the stick and run with it; then she turned her gaze to Jonathan. His easy grin made it impossible not to smile back.

  “Did you see what his latest ‘innovation’ is for his art?” she asked.

  “I only gave the pictures a cursory look during that ball he gave back in the fall.”

  “He mixed real sand with his paint. To give the scene more texture was what he told me when I asked him about it last month.” She rolled her eyes. “Have you ever heard of anything so addled?”

  “I did get the feeling your neighbor is more than a bit harebrained. There are not many people outside the Royal Academy of Arts who invite people in to view their own work.”

  “The Royal Academy of Arts!” Why hadn’t she thought about visiting the Royal Academy and its school while she was in London? It was on the Strand, not too far from Mayfair where she would be staying with her cousin. Like the British Museum, the work displayed there could inspire her to look at her own in new ways.

  “What about the Royal Academy?” Jonathan asked.

  Catherine chided herself for risking the secret she had guarded closely. Hoping her laugh sounded natural, she said, “I had not considered it before now as a place that might be fun to visit while I am in London.”

  His face closed up, and she wondered why. There had been enough truth in her words to make them easy to say.

  When he said nothing, she went on. “Of course, before any trip to Town, we have the wedding and the Christmas Eve ball to look forward to. So many people have said they intend to attend both. I suspect there are few who can resist a wedding celebration and a masquerade.”

  “Masquerade?” He halted and faced her. “Are you saying the ball is a masquerade?”

  “The invitation stated so.”

  He grimaced. “I didn’t look too closely at it, because I assumed I w
ould not be attending.”

  “And if you had noticed that it was a masquerade, you would have definitely decided not to attend.”

  “That is true, though I doubt Meriweather would have accepted my excuse.”

  “Which is?”

  “I feel silly wearing a small mask that is supposed to conceal my identity, when I am betrayed by my height.”

  She tapped her finger against her chin. “There may be a way to disguise your height. I can ask Mme. Dupont to make you a costume. All we need to decide is what you want to come as.”

  “Your modiste is busy making a wedding gown for your sister. She won’t have time for any other projects.”

  She smiled. “You don’t know Mme. Dupont. She is not happy unless she has a dozen things going on at once.”

  “That chaos would drive me mad.”

  “All the more reason for you to meet with her soon, because as the time gets closer to the wedding, everything will be even busier.” She raised one brow. “Unless you want to go as a soldier or a solicitor.”

  “I think not. I have had enough of the first, and most people have had enough of the latter.”

  Laughing, she said, “Then you have no choice but to submit to Mme. Dupont’s measurements and fittings.”

  “You make it sound dire.”

  “I have to own that I make every excuse I can to avoid a fitting, but Mme. Dupont will be here shortly after the midday meal. Why don’t you come to Sophia’s rooms around two?”

  “You are not going to offer me any way to avoid this, are you?”

  Catherine laughed along with him as they turned back to the house. He whistled, and Jobby came running. Jonathan promised to meet her at Sophia’s room as the long-case clock struck the appointed hour.

  But later, as the clock chimed the half hour past two, Catherine tried not to tap her foot against the floor. Where was Jonathan? She had not guessed he would keep her and Mme. Dupont waiting. From inside Sophia’s room, she heard the modiste telling Sophia that she needed no more measurements until the final fitting.

  A sudden motion from the far end of the hallway caught Catherine’s eye. Jonathan hurried toward her, his coattails flapping. She shifted her sketchbook behind her, so he would not notice it. Even though she had planned to rip out the pages to show Mme. Dupont, she could not bring herself to tear apart her precious sketchbook. She hated subterfuge, but she was not ready to trust him with her innermost secret that had sent other men rushing for the door.

  “Forgive me for being late,” Jonathan said, panting as he stopped beside her. “I have no excuse other than I lost track of time. Meriweather and I were playing billiards, and he demanded a chance to beat me at least once.”

  “That sounds as if you were doing well.”

  “Very.” His grin broadened. “But one learns that it is not wise to win all the time when playing one’s host. I trust you will accept my apology.”

  Why had she never taken note of that dimple in his left cheek? It was endearing yet did not distract from his tautly carved face. She was unsure how long she would have stared at his dimple if he had not asked her if she thought it was wise to keep Mme. Dupont waiting any longer.

  She tore her eyes away from him, but not before her gaze was caught again by his compelling eyes. Now they appeared a paler blue than ever, but there was nothing cold about them. In fact she was suffused by that pleasing warmth again.

  Somehow she groped for the door and opened it. He motioned for her to precede him. She did and discovered Mme. Dupont gathering up lace scraps from Sophia’s wedding gown. Sophia came from behind a screen set up along one side of the room.

  “Mr. Bradby, I hope we didn’t leave you in the hallway for too long,” she said.

  “Not at all.” He winked at Catherine. “The timing was perfect.”

  “Excellent.” Sophia motioned toward the modiste who was staring at Jonathan, her mouth agape at the garish colors the rest of them had become accustomed to. “Mme. Dupont, Mr. Bradby needs a costume for the Christmas Eve ball. I would consider it a great favor if you would make it.”

  Mme. Dupont regained her composure. “Ah, M. Bradby, it is a très bonne pleasure to meet you.”

  “Enchanté, madame,” he replied. “Vous êtes bon pour faire un costume pour moi quand vous êtes tellement occupé avec la robe de la mariée. Je vous remercie à l’avance.”

  Catherine averted her eyes when she saw the bafflement and dismay in Mme. Dupont’s eyes at Jonathan’s effortless French. If the modiste saw Cat’s attempts not to laugh, Mme. Dupont would be even more embarrassed. Taking pity on the seamstress, she said, “Jonathan, English please. My French is regrettably far less skilled than yours, and Mme. Dupont doesn’t have time to translate for me.”

  “Of course,” he said. “I said that she was kind to make a costume for me, when she is so busy with preparations for the wedding and a wardrobe for you.”

  “Thank you for explaining.” She did not add that she had easily understood every word he had spoken. Even though England had been at war with France for most of her life, she had learned to speak the language because many art books she wanted to read were written in French.

  Mme. Dupont motioned to the box in the middle of the floor. “I must make ze... How do you say it?”

  “Measurements?” suggested Catherine.

  “Oui!”

  “We will stand over here,” she said. “Once your measurements are complete, Mme. Dupont, we can discuss the best costume for Mr. Bradby.”

  Sophia muffled a laugh as she and Catherine went to the door. In a whisper, her sister said, “I must speak with Mrs. Porter about tonight’s meal. Bonne chance.” She hurried out, closing the door behind her.

  * * *

  Jonathan heard Cat’s sister wish her good luck before she left the room. He wished he could have gone with Sophia, but he squared his shoulders and said nothing when Mme. Dupont instructed him to stand on the middle of the box. It was absurd because she had to get a chair to reach his shoulders. He began to understand why Cat found her fittings ludicrous.

  Jonathan stared straight ahead as the seamstress whipped the string around his chest and waist. She made quick knots in the string with each measurement. He wondered how she knew what each knot was for, because he saw no hints of how she identified one from the other.

  Mme. Dupont was as professional as any knight of the needle. She made her measurements with quiet efficiency and then rolled the string around her wrist when she was done. She called to Cat, who put down the book she had been paging through and came back over.

  His eyes narrowed. That appeared to be the same leather-bound book she had had at breakfast. He was curious about its topic, because she clearly found it so fascinating that she kept it with her. If he knew what she found interesting, it could give him insight into her. He longed to know her better.

  “I have just ze thing pour vous, M. Bradby,” Mme. Dupont said, pulling his attention back to her.

  “And what would that be?”

  “You should go as a wolf.” Her eyes twinkled. “You are a tall man, and a wolf is a large creature. You are a former soldier, so you know how to hunt as a wolf does.”

  “Mme. Dupont,” Cat said, and he wondered if she had seen how he had flinched at the modiste’s cheerful explanation. “Mr. Bradby’s time is valuable.”

  Jonathan flashed Cat a grateful smile. He had no other demands on his time, but he did not want to hear that a soldier was like a wolf stalking its prey.

  “Oui, oui,” Mme. Dupont said, before going on as if Cat had remained silent. “I can create a mask that will have whiskers and a wolf’s ears. With a coat of gray or even black and a sedate waistcoat, you will portray a wolf well.”

  “Sedate?” He had not brought with him a waistcoat anyone would deem as sedate.
>
  “Dark colored,” Mme. Dupont said. “Anything else will ruin the costume. It is something I can make for you, if you have a need.” She eyed him, and he knew that she found his bright waistcoat too garish.

  “I had hoped for something that would make me less visible. Cat—Miss Catherine,” he hurried to correct himself, “suggested you might make a costume that disguised my height.”

  “You can hunch over.” Mme. Dupont gave a very Gallic shrug. “Zat will disguise you, M. Bradby.”

  “Hardly.” He stepped off the box.

  Cat turned to him. “That you are wearing such grim colors may be your best disguise, Jonathan.”

  He wished he could capture her beautiful smile that rose to sparkle in her dark eyes. He wanted to take the image with him when he left Meriweather Hall and was again alone.

  “And what costume will you wear?” he asked, returning her smile.

  Mme. Dupont looked up from where she leaned over a piece of paper. “Mademoiselle will be a shepherdess.”

  “A bit of a cliché, no?” he asked, arching a brow at Cat.

  “True, for many women dress as shepherdesses for masquerades,” Cat said. “But this is the first time that I have had a chance, and I have a wonderful costume. Do you think we should dress Jobby up as a lamb?”

  He laughed. “Only if you want the whole ball disrupted.”

  Though he wanted to continue their lighthearted conversation, Mme. Dupont asked Cat for her opinion on the sketch of his costume. It was simple, and he doubted he would be able to decipher any of the lines drawn on top of each other. Cat seemed to have no problems because she pointed to one part of the odd costume, then to another.

  “You will need to use a stiff fabric to make the mask stand up,” Cat said. “Will you use linen stiffened with paste?”

  Mme. Dupont nodded, an expression of relief easing her tense face. “That is exactly what I will do.” Gathering up the pages, she added, “I have all I need for today, M. Bradby. I will return by week’s end with ze first pieces for your costume. Then we shall make zem fit vous perfectly.”