“Shall we climb up?” she asked in a cheerful voice, hoping he would forget about her weeping.
“Carefully,” Grant said. “The steps may be loose.”
They climbed up into the keep, then once inside, climbed the steps along the wall leading to the very top of the ramparts. Grant kept a strong hand on Clara’s arm, and when she leaned forward to look over the edge of the battlements, his grip became tighter.
“I’m not going to fall.” She considered his furrowed brows and tight jaw. “Are you afraid of heights?”
“Not heights.” He glanced toward the edge. “Falling. Or more specifically, you falling.”
“Don’t worry. It’s strong.” She moved closer and gave the edge of the wall a push to demonstrate.
Grant sucked in a breath through his teeth.
His worry sent heat radiating from Clara’s chest, making her feel soft and very safe. She wondered if this was how Grant had felt climbing in the tree with his father. Had he felt secure, knowing someone strong was watching over him?
She moved away from the edge, content to enjoy the view from the center of the walkway. Grant loosened his tight hold on her arm, sliding his hand down to take hold of hers.
“What is it that you do, Mr. Mason?” she asked as they strolled around the top of the keep’s battlements. “Why is it that you told the vicar you are busy this time of year?”
“Spring is always busy in farm country,” he said. “Crops to plant, animals being born. And so many of my tenants were ill this winter.”
“It is kind of you to help them,” she said.
“Healthy livestock and a productive crop benefits all of us,” he said.
She could tell he was downplaying his generosity. “I don’t think many landowners participate in the physical aspects of their tenants’ labors,” she said. “But perhaps I’m mistaken.”
He shrugged. “Perhaps not. But I enjoy the work.”
“And you care about them.” She smiled when he turned to her. “I’ve seen how kind you are to the children.”
“Landowners, tenants, children, choir directors.” He smirked and winked as he said the last example. “We’re all caulkheads, and all neighbors. That’s how it is on the island. We look out for one another.”
They continued along the narrow walkway, and she thought of the Ladies’ Charity Society and their weekly visits to the members of the parish who needed assistance or, in Mr. Herd’s case, a friend. “I’ve noticed it,” she said. “You are fortunate to be part of such a community.” The homesickness returned—the loneliness and feeling of not belonging. When she glanced up, she saw he was watching her again, holding her gaze as if he were waiting.
She blinked. “Are you . . . I mean, what am I doing wrong?”
Grant squinted. “I’m just waiting.”
“Waiting for what? Am I expected to do something?”
He raised a brow. “I’m waiting for you to fall in love with the island, to say you never wish to leave.” He gave a teasing smile. “I don’t know what’s taking so long.”
Clara laughed at his joking manner. “I didn’t realize it was required.”
“Not required. It is inevitable. One cannot help oneself.” He led her down the steps, turning to assist her once he reached the bottom. He held both of her hands as she took the last steps. “But you are an unusual case. I’ve never seen it take so long.”
She smirked in return, then her expression spread into a genuine smile. “The island is beautiful, truly. And the people are warm and kind. But—”
“But you still intend to return to India.”
Did she see hurt in his eyes or was it imagined? She hadn’t meant to cause offense. She released his hands. “I must, Mr. Mason. I must go home.”
His chin tipped upward the slightest bit as he studied her. “Very well.” He blinked, and the seriousness was gone. He offered his arm and led her from the keep and down into the castle courtyard. “Now, if you don’t mind, I think it’s high time the children’s choir-directing team conducted an official meeting.”
Taken aback by the sudden change of topic, Clara didn’t know how to respond.
“First order of business.” He tipped his hat to an older couple as they passed. “I propose that when alone, the choir directors call one another by their Christian names . . . to make things simpler.”
Clara’s heart thumped, and her cheeks went hot. She didn’t dare look at him and instead kept her gaze on the groups of picnickers. “Very well.” She pushed the words through a dry mouth.
“Good.” He patted her hand that rested on his arm. “Now that the formalities are out of the way, Clara, let us form an action plan.”
Hearing him say her name felt like an electrical jolt through her chest. Heat spread from her cheeks down her neck and burned her ears.
Grant turned toward her, apparently having no idea of the intensity of her reaction. “First of all, our newest team member . . .”
“Oh, Annie.” Clara was relieved to have a neutral topic. “I should have consulted with you before extending the invitation. She just seemed so . . .” She considered exactly what it was about the girl that had affected her. She looked up. “She needs this.”
“I could not agree more.” Grant studied her, his expression seeming much too thoughtful for the subject, and Clara got the impression he was thinking more about her perception of Annie than of the girl herself. “You have a particular way of seeing people, Clara, perceiving those who tend to go unnoticed.” He continued to hold her gaze.
Clara’s skin felt hot and her insides jittery at the compliment. “I suppose that is what every person wants,” she said in a quiet voice. “To be noticed, to feel valued.”
He opened his mouth as if he’d answer but closed it. He scratched his chin and nodded, his brows furrowing. “I suppose it is.”
They walked in silence back to the crumbling wall, and Grant leaned against it, crossing his arms. “Now then, Clara, what does our choir need? And how can I help?”
“They know the song, but they need to sing louder.” Clara held up a finger. “And breathe together.” She held up another. “Oh, and they must stand up straight and smile.” Her third finger joined the others.
Grant raised his eyebrows. “Is that all?”
She wrinkled her nose, thinking of all the elements lacking in the small choir. “If we had more time, I would help them to match their vowels and perhaps teach some of the girls a descant. But we only have two more rehearsals, and so we will focus on sound and presentation.”
“And behavior,” Grant said.
Clara tensed, remembering the last rehearsal, and her chest became tight. “Grant, I honestly do not know . . .”
He grinned, sending a flare of anger through Clara. She scowled, furious that he’d make light of something that had been so upsetting to her. “I find no humor in this.”
His expression fell, and worry took its place, wrinkling his forehead. “You misunderstand me. I’m not laughing. Simply pleased to hear you calling me by my name.”
She rubbed her arms, feeling foolish for so easily taking offense.
Grant stepped closer. “We are a team, Clara. Neither of us can do it alone. I am not able to teach music, but I have a very capable partner. I will do what you cannot.” He took her hands in his, squeezing so that she felt the heat of his skin through her gloves. “I left you alone last time, but I promise I will not do it again. Can you trust me?”
Clara nodded, her throat tight. Although she’d only known him for a short time, she found it surprisingly easy to put her faith in Grant Mason.
Chapter Five
Grant dismounted and tied the horse’s reins to a post outside the churchyard. He had come to town ahead of his mother, hoping for some time alone to speak with Harry Barlow before the children’s Bible Study. As boys, the two had been inseparable, even managing to remain close when they went away to university. But the duties of a landowner and a married vicar over the past
year hadn’t led to their paths crossing as often as they previously had. And though he was happy for the Barlows, Grant missed his friend. The vicar was cheerful and optimistic, but level-headed, and it was the latter quality Grant was depending on. He needed advice.
He started toward the vicar’s cottage behind the church, but the sound of upset voices and a child crying made him change direction. He followed the source of the noise along the church wall, past the cemetery, and down a side street until he found it.
Mrs. Pinkston was crouched down, helping her son William to stand. The boy had fallen in a mud puddle and was quite distressed. Another of the Pinkston’s children, Lucy, stood close by, the sound of her brother’s tears making her cry as well. The baby, Arthur, was thankfully asleep in his pram.
Mrs. Pinkston balanced at an odd angle with her skirts bunched up in her lap to keep them out of the mud. She held out a hand to keep Lucy from coming too close to the puddle as she wiped at William’s muddy clothing with her lacy handkerchief, which obviously did no good. She looked up when Grant approached. “Oh, thank goodness you’re here, Mr. Mason.”
Grant stepped around the pram, taking Lucy’s hand and leading her to where she could see her mother but wouldn’t be in danger of falling into the mud herself. “Is William hurt?”
“Only his pride, I fear.” Using the back of her wrist, Mrs. Pinkston pushed a lock of hair from her forehead. “And he’s quite torn his stockings.”
Hearing this, William started to cry again.
Grant glanced toward the pram, worried the noise would wake the baby. “How can I help?” He handed Mrs. Pinkston his handkerchief. “Shall I take William home?”
Lucy’s crying intensified along with her brother’s.
Mrs. Pinkston left off wiping William’s clothes. She rose and picked up the girl, soothing her. Grasping beneath his arms, Grant lifted William out of the mud and set him onto the dry road, brushing at his dirty knees.
“He’ll need to change his clothes before Bible Study,” Mrs. Pinkston said. “And I’ll have to wash off his shoes.” She rubbed the boy’s back, comforting her two weeping children. She wiped her forehead again, looking utterly exhausted. “Mr. Mason, will you be in town for a bit?”
“I’m just heading in to see the vicar,” Grant said.
“Would you mind watching baby Arthur—just for a moment? I’ll take the children home and hurry back in time for the children’s meeting.” She looked into the pram. “He should remain asleep, but Emmeline Barlow will know what to do if he wakes.”
Grant prayed that the vicar’s wife would be home. “Certainly.” He smiled and put a hand on the pram’s handle.
Reassuring Mrs. Pinkston once again that the baby was no trouble, he bid the woman farewell and pushed the pram toward the church—something he’d never done in the entirety of his life. Each bump in the road made him catch his breath as he worried it would wake the baby. He steered carefully around the rocks in the churchyard, his muscles tense as he avoided the stones of the path entirely. By the time he reached the vicar’s front door, his shoulders ached, and he felt every bit as worn out as Mrs. Pinkston had looked.
Harry opened the door before Grant even knocked. “Grant, what on earth?” His wide-eyed expression turned into a grin as he looked down at the pram. “This is a good look for you.”
“William Pinkston had a small accident. I told his mother I’d bring the baby to—”
As if he just now realized his mother was gone, Arthur Pinkston woke and began to wail.
The men stared at the baby, then at each other.
“You better pick him up,” Harry said.
Grant felt a twinge of panic. “Isn’t your wife home?”
“Sadly, no.” Harry grinned again. “I’m afraid nursemaid duties fall to you.”
Grant looked into the pram. “The task seems more befitting a member of the clergy,” he grumbled but lifted the baby, holding him at arms’ length.
Harry pulled a wooden rattle from the pram and offered it. The baby snatched it away, sticking the toy into his mouth.
Stepping back, Harry opened the door wide. “Won’t you gentlemen come inside?”
Grant tucked the baby against him, holding him in the bend of his arm as he would a rugby ball, and followed Harry into his office.
Harry sat behind the desk, straightening the already straight stack of papers. “Shall I order tea?”
“Not necessary.” Grant sat, placing Arthur onto his lap and wincing at the string of drool that dripped from the baby’s mouth onto his trousers.
“How goes the children’s choir?” Harry asked in a cheerful voice. “You and Miss Brightly left so quickly last week, I didn’t have a chance to inquire.”
For Clara’s sake, Grant was glad the vicar hadn’t heard about the rehearsal. “It went well enough. And we’ve plans to make it more productive tonight.”
Harry nodded, steepling his fingers on his desk and leaning forward. “And how do you find Miss Brightly?”
“Initially, she is quite timid, but she”—Grant searched for the words—“is actually the reason I’ve come to speak with you.”
“Oh?” Harry raised his brows.
“You may or may not know that she intends to return to India.”
“I did not know.” Harry tapped his pointer fingers against his lips. “A pity. She will be missed.”
“It is more than that,” Grant said. “Of course I will miss her, but there is more—”
Harry’s smile grew into a smirk. “I meant by the Wickershams.”
The baby reached for an inkwell on the desk, and Grant moved him to his other leg. When he reached again, Grant stood and paced across the floor of the small office, holding Arthur against his shoulder. “I think Miss Brightly should stay. Brading is good for her. She can heal here, be happy.” He shifted the fussing baby around, fitting him into the bend of his elbow and handing him the rattle. “And she is good for the town. Do you know she befriended Annie Warner? Asked her to help with practices, to hold signs, and told her she wasn’t required to sing.”
“Mrs. Warner mentioned something about it,” Harry said.
Grant paced quicker, frustrated that Clara still wanted to leave when Brading was clearly the place for her.
“And I’m sure you’ve heard about Philip Herd,” Grant said. “Brading needs Miss Brightly, and she needs this town.” He stopped pacing and bounced the baby in his arms. “I hoped to convince her. I took her to the castle, thinking she could not help but fall in love with the island after seeing the downs in spring, but it wasn’t enough.” He shifted the baby into his other arm. “This is why I need your advice, Harry. Maybe the seashore? Or do you think a visit to Shanklin Chine would do it?”
Harry shook his head, the infuriating smile remaining. “Grant, you don’t wish Miss Brightly to fall in love with the island.”
“How else do I convince her—?”
“You want her to fall in love with you.”
Hearing the words, Grant’s impulse was to argue, but he froze, staring at his friend. Could Harry be right? Unable to think of a response, he closed his mouth and looked through the window toward the churchyard. Was he in love with Clara? He hadn’t even considered the possibility. “How? I barely know her.”
“It hardly signifies.”
“But—”
Harry held up a hand, stopping his words. “Grant, aside from the three months after my birth, I’ve known you my entire life, and all of yours. I think in this, I can draw a reasonable conclusion.” He leaned back in the chair, rubbing his palms on the armrests. “I’ve rarely known you to feel this distressed about anything, let alone an overner wishing to leave.”
“Dearest, it’s almost time for Bible Study.” Emmeline Barlow poked her head into the office. “Oh, I beg your pardon, Mr. Mason, I didn’t see you there.” She blinked. “And with Arthur?”
Harry rounded the desk and kissed his wife’s cheek. “Welcome home, darling. Little Arthur is j
ust waiting for his mother.” He winked at Grant. “And Grant would be very pleased if the child could wait with you.”
“Of course.” She reached out her hands.
Grant felt a tug at his neck as Emmeline took the baby from him, and looking down, he saw his necktie had replaced the rattle in Arthur’s mouth. He grimaced and reached into his pocket, then remembered he’d given his handkerchief to Mrs. Pinkston. “Thank you,” he said to the vicar’s wife, holding his soaked necktie away from his shirt.
Emmeline and Arthur left the room, and Harry walked toward the door. “Remain as long as you’d like, Grant.” He motioned to the office. “I imagine you’ve some thinking to do.”
Grant wasn’t certain how to define the mess of emotions churning inside him or the spinning thoughts in his head. One overshadowed the others, and it filled him with an anxious dread. Clara was leaving, and he was powerless to stop her. “Harry, what do I do?”
Harry turned from the doorway. His smile was genuine and full of concern. “Ask her to stay.”
Grant sank into a chair, rubbing his brow. The solution was hardly that simple.
***
When Grant entered the church, Clara was already seated in a pew near the back. He sat beside her, setting his hat in his lap. “Good evening,” he whispered. Grant’s recent revelation left him feeling self-conscious, and he wondered if he should have said something different.
Clara smiled and returned the greeting. “I brought all our supplies.” She pointed at the satchel at her feet.
“I anticipate a successful rehearsal,” he said. “Thanks to your planning.”
“Our planning.” She smiled again, and he noticed a dimple in her left cheek. He wondered if he’d simply not noticed it before or if her previous smiles had been guarded. Either way, she was lovely this evening. Her eyes were bright, twinkling in the candlelight, her hair shone softly, curling over her shoulders, and her demeanor appeared relaxed, which was the best indicator that she was not feeling anxious. He felt very pleased that her bashfulness around him had eased.
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