Jo Ann Brown (8 page)

“Why don’t you go downstairs,” the earl asked his children, “and tell the coachee we are ready to go?”

“Can I sit with him?” asked the irrepressible Michael.

“Maybe on the way back. It depends on how you behave at church.”

His son nodded seriously, then, grabbing his sister’s hand, ran for the stairs. Their steps racing down resonated along the corridor.

Lord Northbridge cleared his throat, then said, “I did not intend to distress your sister with a simple greeting.” He stared at the door.

“
You
did nothing to disconcert her.” Sophia sighed as she walked with the earl toward the stairs. “I did.”

“You? By insisting that she come with us to church?” He put his hand on the banister, and she noticed his broad palm covered its breadth. “I know she is uncomfortable in our company. If you would prefer, Bradby and I can attend services elsewhere. Herriott may be willing to do so, too, though I know he hopes to speak to Reverend Fenwick today.”

Sophia went down the stairs. “It is nothing you did, my lord. She has been like this since our father became ill. Her faith has been shaken.”

“She no longer believes?” He matched her step for step as if they had descended the staircase many times before.

“Deep in her heart, she does. Or so I tell myself. She prayed hard for Papa to get well and then he died. She believes now that her prayers went unanswered.”

“But the answers are not always what we hope.” His gaze turned inward, and she guessed he was thinking of the men who had died on the battlefields where he’d fought.

“I tried to tell her that,” Sophia said, “but she has changed, no longer attending the vicar’s services with joy. Now she goes only with a sense of obligation and because she does not want to do anything to upset Mama more. And when she sets her mind on something, Cat will not have it changed.”

“Cat?” asked Mr. Bradby as he joined them at the bottom of the stairs. “Am I to believe that fair Catherine has such a mundane nickname?” He chuckled. “I daresay it is fitting, for she is as cute as a kitten.”

Sophia held up her hands as alarm surged through her. “Please do not repeat that name in her hearing. She asked us not to use it any longer, but occasionally I forget.”

Charles aimed a furious glare at his friend. Why was Bradby making a jest now when Sophia was so upset that even his friend could not fail to see? Draping an arm around Bradby’s shoulders, he said, “My good friend
John-a-Nokes,
” he said, emphasizing the name that Bradby despised, “will honor your request, I am sure.”

Bradby muttered something under his breath that Charles did not ask him to repeat, because he suspected it would not be fit for Sophia’s ears. As his friend went out the door, he sighed. The morning was bright and sunny; yet everyone was in a dark mood.

“Do not worry,” Charles said. “Bradby is a decent man in spite of his hoaxing. If he forgets, Herriott and I will remind him of a gentleman’s responsibility to grant a lady her wish.”

“Thank you.” She smiled weakly at him. “I hope it does not come to that.”

“I doubt it will.” He motioned for her to precede him out the door and toward the carriage that waited for them.

She did not move. “What did you call Mr. Bradby?”

“It is a play on Jonathan, his given name.” He set his hat in place as they stepped outside. “John-a-Nokes simply means anyone. He got the moniker when he always was the last one out of bed each morning and seldom made roll call on time. Your cousin actually picked it.”

Sophia chuckled as she lifted an excited Michael into the carriage as Herriott greeted Charles. Bradby had the decency to look chagrined. Charles watched while Herriott handed Sophia into the carriage, and he wished his hand was beneath hers. Those slender fingers emphasized her words when she spoke and were loving when she offered her hand to Gemma or Michael. He was startled to realize he envied both his friend
and
his children.

He stepped forward to help Gemma, but she scampered into the carriage, sat next to Sophia, and began chattering nonstop. He had been snubbed by his own daughter. She glanced at him as he closed the carriage door. Her smile was cool and victorious.

Who had taught Gemma such tricks? Her mother or her grandmother or both? He should have sold his commission and returned as soon as he had received word of Lydia’s death. Maybe he should never have left in the first place. He had not expected one casualty of war would be his daughter’s love and respect.

* * *

Charles drew in his horse in front of the stone church with its thick, square tower. It sat at the very edge of the Meriweather lands. It was not as old as the manor house, but, according to Herriott, there had been a church on that spot for centuries. The gravestones in the churchyard tilted away from the sea winds as did the single tree in the lee of the structure.

He dismounted and took Michael’s hand as soon as his son bounced out of the carriage. A single glance at the coachee was enough to remind the little boy that he must behave if he wished to ride on the box to Meriweather Hall.

They entered the porch, and Charles kept the church’s door open for the others. The interior of the building was simple with two rows of stone columns on either side of the pews that were surrounded by wood panels that stood almost four feet tall. The narrow aisles along the sides and between the pews were littered with memorial stones. Several had blank indentations where brasses once had been set.

Even though the sides of the pews were so tall that they eclipsed several adult parishioners, Charles sensed every eye focused on their odd parade. Except for Sophia, the rest were strangers to the parish. Heads vanished behind the walls separating the pews, then popped up again to observe the newcomers. Whispers echoed oddly up to the rafters.

Sophia led the way to the first pew, on the right side. She glanced at Herriott and nodded. Opening the door to what must be the Meriweather family pew because it had a coat of arms painted on it, Herriott motioned for Sophia to precede him. There was not enough room for all of them, and Charles turned to find another empty pew.

Michael dashed in to sit beside Sophia. His sister followed. When Herriott motioned for Charles to join them, he hesitated. Herriott went across the aisle to sit with Bradby. More whispers rustled through the church.

What a muddle! Herriott should be in the Meriweather pew, not Charles.

“It will be fine,” Sophia said softly. “Sit.”

Charles did, then shifted when Michael crawled over him to be closest to the door. Suddenly it seemed as if the four of them were cut off from the rest of the world. Sophia did not look in his direction, but he knew she was as aware as he was of how visible they were. If he reached out and took her hand, would she pull it away?

He had no chance to find out because Miss Fenwick stopped to greet them. Puzzlement wrinkled her brow when she asked about Catherine and Sophia quickly answered that they should speak of that after the service. Miss Fenwick nodded before taking a place in a pew in front of where Herriott and Bradby sat. If she was startled at the seating arrangements, he saw no signs. He hoped the vicar’s sister’s reaction would set the tone for the rest of the parishioners.

A door opened near the pulpit, and Mr. Fenwick stepped up to the altar. He welcomed them before offering up an opening prayer. As his smooth, deep voice flowed over their bowed heads, Charles tried to put aside other thoughts to listen. It was almost impossible when Sophia’s lavender scent flavored every breath. If he moved his arm an inch, his elbow would touch hers.

Had Mr. Fenwick chosen the verses for his sermon especially for the new baron and his fellow soldiers? He read from Psalm 140. “I said unto the Lord, Thou art my God: hear the voice of my supplications, O Lord. O God the Lord, the strength of my salvation, thou hast covered my head in the day of battle.”

Charles listened as the vicar spoke of the battles for good that everyone must fight each day. Mr. Fenwick intended his message for all the parishioners, but the vicar’s gaze often met Charles’s during the sermon. The man spoke well and with great insight.

“Let us sing,” Mr. Fenwick said before announcing the number of the hymn that would signal the end of the service.

Charles reached for a hymnal and his fingers brushed Sophia’s. Warmth coursed up his arm, even as Gemma held another open hymnal in front of her. Sophia hesitated, giving Michael enough time to slip in front of them to grab the other side of Gemma’s hymnal. His daughter scowled, but said nothing as the singing began.

Sophia’s voice was a rich alto, and he had to force himself to concentrate on the words for the three verses instead of losing himself in that sweet sound. Too soon the hymn was over. The benediction quickly followed, and he had no excuse but to help his son open the pew door. Once more the rest of the world could intrude, and it did as they were swept up with the stream of other parishioners walking toward the door where Mr. Fenwick waited to greet them.

Outside the church, Charles did not want to let Sophia slip away from him. He nodded absently when Michael asked about riding on the box. As Gemma ran after her brother toward the carriage, Charles said, “That was an excellent service.”

“Mr. Fenwick is an inspired speaker,” Sophia replied. “I could tell you thought so, as well.”

“I did. And what a pleasure it was not to have to strain my neck to an odd angle when sharing a hymnal with a lovely young lady!”

“You are too kind, my lord.” A flattering blush rose up her face, and he wondered why she reacted so to any compliment.

“I have seldom been accused of being too kind.”

She smiled and shook her head. “Arguing is out of place in the churchyard, but I must mention that I could name several people who would announce that statement to be untrue. Cousin Edmund thinks very highly of you as, I believe, Mr. Bradby does.”

“They are my friends. They have to like me. I—”

A woman screamed. He whirled. Just in time to see the Meriweather carriage careen down the road with the coachee in pursuit. If he was not on the box, who was driving the carriage?

He got his answer when Sophia ran after it shouting, “Michael!”

Chapter Seven

S
ophia would never be able to catch the runaway carriage, but her legs pumped as fast as she could run. Was Gemma in the carriage, too? She watched in horror as the carriage bounced off the road and toward the cliffs. It swayed wildly, then the wheels found the road again.

A horse sped past her. Lord Northbridge! He was bent low over the saddle and urging the horse to its top speed. She jumped to the side of the road as two more horses galloped after the carriage. Dust blinded her, but she knew Mr. Bradby and her cousin were riding after the earl. Even knowing that they had a chance to reach the carriage while she did not, she kept running until she reached a knoll where she had a view of the road to Meriweather Hall.

Shielding her eyes against the glare off the sea, she watched Lord Northbridge draw even with the carriage. He glanced at the box, shouted something, then sent his horse forward to match the frantic pace of the carriage horses. He waved his arm high in the air, and Cousin Edmund sent his own horse around to the other side of the carriage. Once their horses were running nose and nose with the carriage horses, Lord Northbridge reached out and grasped the harness. He tugged on it as he sent his mount at an angle away from the carriage horse. Cousin Edmund used his horse to herd the other horse to turn, as well. They brought the runaways to a stop.

Sophia gathered her skirt up and rushed to where Mr. Bradby waited in the saddle. When he offered to let her ride, she shook her head and kept running. It would take longer for her to mount than to reach the carriage on foot.

Lord Northbridge was handing his son down to Cousin Edmund as Sophia skidded to a stop by the carriage. She put her hand to her side as she panted from the race.

“Michael is unhurt,” her cousin said before she could ask. “He never got a grip on the reins before the horses sped off.”

“Gemma?” she asked.

The two men exchanged a horrified glance. She tore open the carriage door. Huddled on the floor, Gemma was crying hysterically.

Sophia called her name. The little girl flung herself into Sophia’s arms so hard that they almost collapsed to the ground. Setting Gemma on her feet, Sophia knelt and hugged the little girl. She whispered over and over that Gemma was safe, that Michael was safe, that everything was all right. The child clung to her as Sophia thanked God that neither child had been injured.

A large hand cupped Gemma’s head, and Sophia raised her eyes to meet the fear in Lord Northbridge’s. He silently asked a question that she understood. She smiled to let him know that Gemma was uninjured. His own face was grim as he walked to where her cousin still held Michael.

Sophia wanted to call him back, tell him to offer his daughter comfort. Such a kindness might bridge the chasm between them. With a pulse of empathy, she knew the earl had not offered even to hug his daughter because he believed he would be rebuffed.

Lord, You know what resides in our hearts. Please help this family find a way to open theirs to each other.

Wiping away Gemma’s tears, Sophia calmed the child. She heard other voices coming closer, and she guessed the rest of the churchgoers had arrived to find out if everything was well. She paid them no attention as she focused on Gemma.

The little girl’s sobs became gentle hiccups. Taking her hand, Sophia sat by the road and waved away Vera Fenwick. Her friend nodded, then kept others away so Sophia and Gemma could talk.

“It was scary,” Gemma said.

“It must have been.”

“I should have known that Michael would do something beefheaded after he boasted that he could drive the carriage better than the coachman.”

“That is what little boys do,” Sophia said, smoothing back Gemma’s hair from her damp face. “If Michael had stopped to think, he would know a little boy cannot control two large horses.”

“Uncle Walter did.”

Sophia heard wistfulness in Gemma’s voice, so she asked. “Who is Uncle Walter?”

“Our uncle,” Gemma replied in a tone that suggested she questioned Sophia’s sanity.

“I see.”

She doubted the little girl heard her trite answer, because Gemma hurried on, “Uncle Walter always promised he would let Michael hold the reins, but he never did. Then he would laugh and brag about how he could drive a coach and four when he was younger than me. He said Michael was a baby for not driving.”

Outraged that a man would say such a thing, Sophia said, “That is silly. No child can drive a coach and four. He would have been pulled right out of the box.” She shivered as she thanked God again for keeping Michael from having had a good hold on the reins.

Gemma folded her arms over her chest and frowned. “Are you calling Uncle Walter a liar or me?”

“Neither.” How alike Lord Northbridge and his daughter were! Both bristled when they felt under attack.

Before she could say more, she heard the earl’s raised voice. It was razor sharp as he demanded, “Why would you do something foolhardy?”

Sophia drew in a sharp breath when Michael shrank into himself, too frightened of his father’s rage to answer. Lord Northbridge had every reason to be upset, but such a tone would sever their fragile relationship.

Coming to her feet, Sophia took Gemma’s hand. She led the little girl over to where Mr. Bradby and her cousin looked uneasily in the earl’s direction. Putting Gemma’s hand in her cousin’s, she squatted next to Michael. She did not look at his father, who had gone silent, as she whispered for the child to go to his sister.

“I thought,” Lord Northbridge said in the same whetted tone, “that you wished me to handle my family problems while you deal with yours. This is my problem. Not yours.”

“You may want to listen to what I have to say before you continue to berate your son publicly.” She glanced over her shoulder at the crowd that surrounded the children who stood on either side of her cousin.

He nodded as his jaw worked with his strong emotions.

She led the way to the other side of the carriage where they could talk without being overheard. Quickly she explained what Gemma had told her.

“Uncle Walter?” A puzzled expression crossed his face, then his mouth tightened as he paced in front of her. Anger and frustration billowed off him like a mist. “She must have meant Lydia’s step-cousin. He has less wit than these horses.”

“But the children would not realize that, so you cannot fault them for believing that Michael could drive the carriage.”

He stopped and faced her. “Why are you defending them when they could have killed themselves?”

“I am not defending them.”

“Then what do you call it?”

Sophia took a deep breath, then said, “I don’t know. I simply am trying to get you to understand the truth behind a poor decision.”

“I understand it, but how will they learn to make good decisions if they are not taught?”

“Children listen better when you treat them as children and not as miniature adults. Or worse as soldiers you are commanding!”

“Is that so?”

“Yes. Give them a chance to explain rather than jumping to conclusions. Then they will listen to your guidance instead of rebelling against it.”

His shoulders dropped slightly, and the tension in his face eased. “It is worth a try. Heaven knows, nothing else seems to be working with Gemma.”

Sorrow ached within her heart for this proud man who had succeeded in remaining alive during the war, but had failed with his daughter.

“Get to know them better,” she urged. “The day should be pleasant tomorrow. You can go to the village and let them explore the streets and the shops.” Knowing she was being bold, she put her hand on his arm.

He looked at it, then met her gaze again. “Will you come with us?”

“They need to learn more about you, not me.”

“But
I
need to learn more about you.”

Her breath caught over her rapidly beating heart as he slid his hand over hers on his sleeve. With him standing so near, she recalled his comment about sharing a hymnal with a woman close to his own height. He had not been derisive. Instead he had been admiring, and his compliment had eased, ever so slightly, the memory of the taunts she had endured in London.

“Say you will come with us,” he said. “I am not too proud to know that if I am ever to win over Gemma, I will need your help.” A smile touched his lips. “A good military officer knows how to make the best use of his resources, and I am beginning to see that you are my best chance to convince my daughter I am not the ogre she seems to think I am. Say you will help me.”

She could not conceive of any answer she could give him other than yes, so she did.

* * *

Charles lifted his children out of the carriage as Herriott assisted Sophia on the other side. It was as it should be, but Charles wished that he could be the one handing her out so her eyes would sparkle directly into his in the moment before she stepped to the ground. When Gemma and Michael ran to her, he followed at a more sedate pace.

The wind whipped between the narrow stone houses clumped at the very edge of the cliff. It tried to steal Sophia’s bonnet and twisted her gown around her. And it stole the sound of her laugh as she bent to say something to the children. Their answering giggles reached his ears as the fickle gusts died for a moment.

As he approached, she was saying to his friends, “You will understand why we have to leave the carriage here once you step around these houses. The street is steep and winding, and it is difficult for horses both going up and down.”

She put her hand on the arm her cousin offered, but her eyes scanned the area along the top of the cliff. When they settled on him, she smiled and motioned for him to join them.

His stomach lurched as the warmth in her scintillating eyes almost staggered him. If he had any sense, he would jump in the carriage and speed away. He must not let her think that he was looking for a mother for his children, though he could not envision anyone else who would be as loving and patient with them as she was.

But Lydia had appeared that way with children, too...at first.

Charles tightened his fists until his nails cut into his palms. The memory of Lydia was not going to ruin another day. She had looked forward to putting him out of her life, so it was stupid that she kept invading his.

Setting a smile firmly in place, he strode over to where the others waited. He was surprised when Bradby clapped him on the back; then he saw understanding in his friend’s eyes. Charles wondered how many ways he had betrayed his attraction for Sophia. If Herriott had noted it, he showed no sign. For that, Charles was grateful.

“You were not exaggerating the difficulty a carriage would have here,” Charles said as they stepped around the cottages at the top of the cliff.

The curving street dropped sharply toward the sea, but that did not slow villagers who went up and down on their errands with an ease that suggested they walked on a level surface. Cottages on either side pressed close to each other as if to keep from tumbling into the sea. A few narrow alleys were visible. Overhead, gulls screeched in their circular flight that took them far out over the water.

“Quite to the contrary, Miss Meriweather,” Bradby said, “you may have been understating how steep the village streets are.” He chuckled. “I daresay a wise man would admire the view from here.”

“Is that so?” Sophia took her hand off Herriott’s arm and held out her hands to the children. The three started down the hill.

Charles’s friends exchanged an uneasy glance.

“Shall we allow ourselves to be outdone by a woman and children?” asked Bradby. “Think what that would do to our reputations.”

“Nothing could tarnish yours further.” Herriott ducked as Bradby pretended to swing a fist at him.

“They will be at the bottom before you begin,” Charles said.

Herriott gave an emoted wince, then laughed.

Motioning for the others to follow, Charles descended the precipitous street in Sophia’s wake. He was glad to discover that, though it dropped quickly, the street eased into a more gradual slope than it appeared from the top. The houses edging the street added to the illusion of a sheer drop. The front steps concealed how the foundations had been built at an angle so the buildings were perpendicular to the sea and yet firmly anchored.

He left his friends behind as they descended with more caution. He heard Sophia and the children before he caught sight of them. As he came around the edge of a cottage that stuck out into the street, he saw Michael pointing at a window that displayed a bright red-and-yellow kite for sale next to the rows of fruit and vegetables.

“What is it?” Michael asked.

“A kite,” Sophia answered.

“What does it do?”

“You fly it.”

“Like a bird?”

Sophia smiled at Charles as he drew even with them, then turned to his son. “A kite floats on the wind,” she said.

“When a string is tied to it,” Charles added, “you can run along the beach and the kite will follow high in the sky.”

Michael whirled to look up at him. “Can we buy it?”

“We can make our own,” Sophia said. “Then we can take it flying, as long as your father agrees.”

“It sounds like a wonderful plan.”

Michael jumped up and down in his excitement, and Gemma began chattering about what color she wanted her kite to be as she led her brother down the hill.

“We had best keep up with them,” Sophia said. “If they get out of our sight, they probably will end up helping the fishermen unload their boats and gut their fish.”

Charles laughed, a real laugh, not one of the polite ones that had become his habit. “Michael might. However, I doubt Gemma would want to be around such a smelly mess.” He offered his arm, and she placed her fingers on his coat sleeve.

He would gladly have stood there close to her until he had memorized every aspect of her lovely face that was partly shadowed by the rim of her straw bonnet. The pink flowers sewn to the decorative ribbon matched the enticing shade on her cheeks. That color deepened when she realized he was admiring her, and she quickly lowered her eyes. She might have lifted her hand away, but he put his gloved one over hers. Her lips parted with that soundless offer for him to sample them.