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Nodding, the footman said, “I won’t. From this point forward.”
“I am pleased to hear that.” He motioned for Jessup to hand the message to Miss Kightly, and the footman held out a folded sheet to the pretty blonde.
As she opened it, he shifted his gaze toward Miss Fenwick. She stood beside her brother, her hand on his arm in a comforting pose. Not that he was surprised. Miss Fenwick was very supportive of her brother and his ministry. He had known that before, but her request by the remnants of the burned-out church was proof of her devotion to him.
Edmund looked away. Miss Fenwick’s determination to help her brother with his parish must have been what had persuaded her to ask Edmund’s assistance in rebuilding the church. How long would it take for her to realize she had made the request of the wrong man? His gut churned at the idea of having the respect he had seen in her eyes turn to pity.
Pitiful.
He had heard others whisper the word when they thought he could not hear. Even though his closest friends had never spoken so, he knew what was in their heads. It was a pity that Edmund Herriott, who once could be depended on to make a quick decision, now could make none at all. Not good. Not bad.
Pitiful.
A groan sounded in the entry, and, for a moment, he wondered if it had escaped from him.
Miss Fenwick rushed to Miss Kightly’s side, asking her what was wrong, and he shoved away his thoughts that punished him over and over.
Miss Kightly’s smile was forced. “Forgive me. I am simply surprised at the message from my great-uncle.”
“Do you want to share what Sir Nigel has to say?” Miss Fenwick asked.
“Yes, I guess I should. He says that...” Her voice trailed off.
Miss Fenwick looked toward Edmund, and he shrugged. He could think of several possible subjects Sir Nigel might have written about, especially in light of what had happened at the church and what had been discovered.
He was not surprised when Miss Kightly said, “My great-uncle has sent word that I should be ready to return to his house.”
“When?” he asked.
She looked at the note, a lovely golden strand of hair slipping across her pale cheek. “It says only that he will come for me today.” Again a strained smile edged along her lips. “’Tis good then that there has not been enough time to unpack my bags.” She folded the page and looked around.
The footman jumped forward to take it from her at the same time Edmund reached toward her. Jessup backed away with an apology.
Edmund nodded toward him, then said, “If you wish to sit in the small parlor, I will have a hearty tea brought for us.”
“Sit?” Miss Fenwick said with an unexpected laugh. “We have been doing far too much of that.”
He savored the sound of her laugh. It lilted like a lark over a spring field, bringing the warmth of sunshine into the entry hall. When she looked at him, he chuckled, caught up in her amusement.
“I stand corrected,” he replied.
That set off another round of laughter from both ladies, though the vicar remained as somber as his dark clothes. Edmund had to pause to realize what he had said that was funny.
“No,” Miss Fenwick said, “we all stand corrected.”
Were her words a gentle reminder that his guests were exhausted? Maybe so. Maybe not. As with everything else, he could not decide.
But, even if the words were meant only as a jest, he needed to think of his guests’ needs. And his own. His clothes were wet, and they stank of ashes and brandy. He glanced toward the stairs, wondering which rooms were ready for guests. At Christmas, when his other cousin had wed, the Meriweather women had overseen all such preparations.
As if he had spoken aloud, Jessup said, “Lady Meriweather left instructions for where the vicar and his sister and Miss Kightly would stay.”
Thank God for Lady Meriweather’s foresight. He was able to wear a genuine smile as he said, “Jessup will show you to your rooms whenever you wish.”
Miss Fenwick turned to her brother who had not said a word since they had left the church. “Gregory, why don’t you rest? I doubt you have slept an hour since the fire.”
“I can try.” The vicar’s voice was a shadow of its usual booming warmth. “I probably won’t sleep. Every time I close my eyes, I see that inferno rising up from the depths to consume the church. Every time I let my mind wander, it takes me immediately to the moment when I first saw the flames and knew all I have worked for was being destroyed.”
Edmund had to look away before the vicar saw that hated sympathy and pity on his face. He did not want to subject any other person to that expression.
“Try to rest today,” Miss Fenwick said quietly. “You are going to need to be rested for the work yet to be done in rebuilding the parish church.”
“So they can burn it down again?”
Miss Fenwick gasped at the venom in her brother’s voice. “Gregory—”
“Someone should have put a halt to these smugglers by now.” His fury focused on Edmund. “Why haven’t you? Is it because your life’s work isn’t in danger?”
The vicar’s words lashed through Edmund. Through Miss Fenwick, too, if he judged by how her face became a sickly gray. Miss Kightly stared at the vicar as if she had never seen him before. No one spoke as the last echoes of Mr. Fenwick’s words faded from the entry hall.
Again it was Miss Fenwick who spoke first. “You are exhausted, Gregory. You barely know what you are saying.” She put her arm around him, and he wove like a sailor on a ship in a storm. He leaned on her as his head lolled, and she began to buckle.
Edmund leaped forward to pull the vicar’s other arm over his shoulder and help keep both Mr. Fenwick and his sister on their feet. He got the man steady only when the footman Foggin grasped the vicar’s arm that was draped over Miss Fenwick and drew it over his own shoulder. Miss Fenwick stepped back, her blue eyes wide with despair. She grasped Miss Kightly’s hand like a lifeline.
“Jessup and I can get him upstairs to rest, my lord,” Foggin said.
“I want to see that he is settled in,” Miss Fenwick said in a crisp voice that suggested nothing anyone said would change her mind.
“And, if someone could escort me to where my bags were taken,” Miss Kightly said, “I would greatly appreciate it.”
A glance he could not read flashed between the two women, and Miss Fenwick asked, “If you don’t mind, my lord, can Jessup assist Miss Kightly while we see to Gregory?”
It sounded like a reasonable solution, though he knew he could never have come to it on his own. Everyone looked at him, so he nodded. He loathed admitting, even to himself, how grateful he was for Miss Fenwick’s suggestion. He had no idea how long they all would have stood in the entry hall while he tried to determine what to do next.
With a smile and a nod to Jessup, Miss Kightly went up the long staircase, with the footman following like a well-trained puppy. No man of any class could be immune to the blonde’s ethereal beauty. She was like a fairy tale princess come to life.
He shook the thought out of his head. Now was not the time to admire Miss Kightly. The vicar needed his help. Telling Foggin that they would start at the count of three, he took a deep breath. The vicar was completely senseless and, therefore, dead weight.
As they climbed, Edmund wondered if he could have managed to help lug the vicar up the stairs before he had gone to the Continent. The life there had hardened his muscles in ways he had never imagined. In comparison with hefting cannon and gunpowder casks, the vicar was a light load. It had not been an officer’s place to handle such tasks, but, in battle, everyone pitched in to help where they could.
Just as Miss Fenwick asked you to help with the church.
He grimaced at how easily she slipped into his thoughts when he was not on guard to prevent it.
“I can send for another footman, my lord,” Foggin said.
“If you need to be relieved...”
“Nay, my lord.” The footman stumbled over his words as he added, “I meant to take over for you.”
“No need.” That the footman had misread his grimace was probably the best thing that had happened all day. It would not do for the household staff to start whispering about how their lord could not get his mind off Miss Fenwick.
That would be insulting to the vicar’s sister. She had endured enough without him saying something that would be repeated and distorted throughout Sanctuary Bay. It was not she who monopolized his thoughts, but the project she had asked him to work on with her.
The vicar swayed in spite of their grasp on his arms; then he steadied. Edmund looked back to see Miss Fenwick with her hand against her brother’s back.
“Move away,” Edmund said. “If he falls, he could take you with him.”
“I am just helping, even though I know you won’t let him fall.” She gave him a bolstering smile.
That smile did something unexpected to him, making him feel—for a moment—that he could do anything. Even coming to a simple decision would be possible if she smiled at him again with that expression that suggested she believed he was capable of again becoming the man he once had been. It was oddly comforting to have someone believe the invisible wounds he carried would heal.
“Thank you,” he said.
Her crystal-blue eyes widened, and he realized he had put too much fervor into those two words. What a beef-head he was! She was thinking of her brother’s welfare, not his. Hadn’t he just noted what a devoted sister she was to the vicar? She appreciated Edmund’s help. Nothing more. Nothing less. He must not forget that again.
* * *
Vera closed the door to the room where Gregory now slept. She guessed Mrs. Porter had slipped some valerian into Gregory’s tea, because he had calmed and grown sleepy after drinking less than half of the cup. Maybe with a good night’s sleep, he would be more himself in the morning.
Thank You, Lord, for letting him find rest. We will need Your help even more than usual in the days to come.
She walked along the corridor to the room that Lord Meriweather had offered for her use. Going inside, she faltered. Many times she had sat in this room because it had belonged to Catherine Meriweather before her wedding. Here, while seated on the settee in front of the large arched window, she and Cat had talked of every possible subject and read books they both had enjoyed. Occasionally, she had brought a small bag of mending from the vicarage while Cat worked on her needlework. They had sometimes simply looked out at winter snow, summer blooms and the ever-changing sea. She had been here so often that every piece of furniture was as familiar as any in the vicarage, and she knew every contour of the coffered ceiling.
But she had never imagined she would sleep in that grand bed with its bright pink curtains and lush covers. She never had coveted it, being satisfied with the simpler bed in her tiny room at the vicarage. The house she and Gregory had used on Lord Hedgcoe’s estate had been larger, but she had been grateful every day that they had a home in Sanctuary Bay.
Now she would be sleeping in this magnificent room until the vicarage was habitable again. She had no idea when that would be. Both Lord Meriweather and her brother had insisted it was too dangerous for her even to peek inside the burned house, so she could not guess how much work it would need. The first priority was rebuilding the church.
No, they needed to find a place to hold services. If the fire had happened a couple of months from now, winter would be past and services could be held out-of-doors. There was no place in the village big enough to hold the parishioners. Maybe Gregory could do several different services for a short time. It was logical, but she knew how important it was to the parish to worship together. That was why, at the time of the previous lord’s death, the talk had begun about building a larger church. Recently, the population in the village had grown.
Her fingers clenched on the coverlet. She hoped the arrival of more people to the village set on the side of the steep cliff had nothing to do with the smugglers. Easy money could entice criminals who would change Sanctuary Bay forever. With all the preparations for Cat and Jonathan’s wedding, she had spent very little time in the village during the past six or seven weeks. Maybe she should make some calls on longtime parishioners and discover more about the newcomers.
“Is there a problem, Miss Fenwick?” asked Lord Meriweather.
She released the covers and whirled. She had not expected him to come and check on her. She had assumed he would return downstairs where he could talk with Miss Kightly or seek his own rooms in order to change out of his smoke-stained clothing. His hair was still damp, and it curled at the back of his collar.
“Of course not,” she hurried to say before he could notice that she was staring. “Not beyond the obvious ones, I should say.”
He nodded, and she expected he would urge her to rest and be on his way. Instead, he lingered by the door. “I have assured your brother as I have you that everything humanly possible will be done to rebuild the church.”
“I am sure.” She smiled, astounding herself because she had been thinking only moments ago of surrendering to tears. “With your expertise, my lord, all should go well.”
He looked past her as if unwilling to meet her eyes. “About that, Miss Fenwick. I hope you understand that I have never been involved in building a church.”
“Nor have Gregory or I.”
“True.” A smile flitted across his lips as he leaned one shoulder against the doorjamb. “I will need guidance.” He looked toward the ceiling before lowering his gaze to meet hers. “Not just from above, but on a more practical earthly plane.”
“We will do everything we can to help.”
“Good.”
She sensed there was something more he wanted to say. Perhaps she was mistaken. She did not know him well enough to discern his true feelings, but her intuition whispered she was right.
“And,” she said with a smile of her own, “I am grateful that you have offered such a lovely and comfortable place for Gregory and me to stay. We both will understand if a time comes when you need our rooms for other guests.”
“Nonsense. I’m not tossing you out when you have no place to go. What sort of fellow would I be then?”
Tears rushed into her eyes, and she lowered them before he could discern how much his words meant to her. If Lord Hedgcoe had shown that kindness, she and Gregory would not have feared being homeless and facing starvation.
“Have I said something wrong, Miss Fenwick?” Lord Meriweather asked, sincere concern in his question. “If I have said something unseemly, forgive me. I have spent too many years with men who spoke plainly.”
She met his gaze with her own. “You have not said anything unseemly. You are being far kinder than I dared to hope.”
“Kinder?”
Oh, dear! Had she offended him when all she wanted to do was thank him? Every word that came out of her mouth today seemed to be the wrong one.
When she said that and asked for his forgiveness, he chuckled. “I could say the same thing to you, Miss Fenwick, and beg your indulgence. I daresay fatigue and shock have more control of our tongues than our brains do.”
“I agree.” For the first time since she had heard of the fire at the church, her shoulders sagged from their rigid stance. A shudder of pain rushed down her back as her strained muscles protested.
A good night’s sleep. That was what she needed as much as her brother did.
Vera did not realize that she had swayed until Lord Meriweather’s hand closed around her arm and he asked if she needed to sit. Warmth slipped from his palm, strengthening her, but her head remained light.
“Maybe I should sit,” she murmured.
“May I help you?”
“Yes.” She did not want to tumble on to her nose in front of him, so she allowed him to guide her to the settee in front of the largest window.
He sat her as if she were made of the most brittle porcelain. Brittle. That described exactly how she felt. Every inch of her seemed to feel too much and be about to crack at the next bit of bad news.
Kneeling beside her, he held her hands between his calloused ones. She wondered why his fingers were trembling; then she realized the quivering came from her own fingers.
“Tell me what you need, Miss Fenwick,” he said, his face turned up toward her.
She gazed down at him. A low mat of tawny whiskers emphasized the planes of his jaw and cheek. How had she failed to notice that tiny scar beneath his right eyebrow? It was no bigger than the nail on her smallest finger, and she was curious if he had received it, as his friend Lord Northbridge had, during the war. Or had it been there before he joined the fight against Napoleon?
“Miss Fenwick?”
“Yes?” she asked as she seemed to fall into the brown depths of his eyes. They had seen so much. Things she could not imagine. Things she did not want to imagine.
Again the tired tears scorched the back of her eyes. She needed to be more like him in the wake of the fire at the church. Be strong and keep her focus on the task that lay ahead.
“Tell me what you need me to do,” he said again.
For you to tell me that everything will be all right, that this is only a nightmare. She could not say that. Instead, she struggled to smile and found it was not as difficult as she had expected when he regarded her with kindness.
