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“True. I shall be specific.” He pyramided his fingers in front of his face. “Rumor says that the vicar and his sister are now living here at Meriweather Hall. Is that true?”
“Yes.” He was shocked by the abrupt turn in the conversation. Why would Ashland be interested in where the Fenwicks were staying in the wake of the fire? “I thought we were talking about rumors of the smugglers.”
“We are. Other rumors have reached my ears. Rumors of smugglers using the church as a place to store their shipments.”
It took every ounce of his control to ask in a placid voice, “Are you accusing the Fenwicks of assisting the smugglers?”
“The facts speak for themselves.”
“Do they?” He lowered his foot to the floor as he met Ashland’s stare with his own. “Then you clearly are hearing more than rumor, Ashland. The facts are not that straightforward to me. I have seen what was left behind in the church’s cellar, and I have seen the Fenwicks’ faces when they heard that information.” He faltered as he recalled the pain and grief on Miss Fenwick’s face during the long ride back from Norwich. Tears had glistened in her eyes when she had beheld what was left of the only home she had known for the past ten years. The memory of her face as she had fought to remain strong for her brother and his parishioners was etched on his mind. “I believe they have been victims, twice over. First, when the smugglers used Mr. Fenwick’s church for their crimes, and second, when the church and the vicarage were burned.”
“You come to their defense easily.”
“The truth is easy.” Keeping his answers short prevented his anger from bursting forth.
The viscount smiled coldly. “Truth, like beauty, is bought by judgment of the eye, if I may misquote Shakespeare. You rush to the defense of the Fenwicks.”
“Because they are, as I have said, victims in this heinous crime.”
“Maybe they are, but I am not as certain of that as you are.”
Edmund borrowed the viscount’s chilly expression. “Why?”
Again he sensed that his question had astounded Ashland, because the viscount did not shoot back an answer. When Edmund had gone to Ashland’s estate last year to ask for his help in halting the smugglers, he had been shocked at the viscount’s disdain and disinterest in taking action with him. He had stuttered over his words and left feeling like a pup with its tail curled beneath its legs...as he had when Lady Eloisa had tossed him aside.
“You are a newcomer to Sanctuary Bay, Meriweather,” the viscount answered as he regained his poise. “I have lived nearby my whole life.”
“Then you should know that the Fenwicks would never be mixed up with the smugglers.”
“No?” He laughed icily. “I would leave you in your ignorance, Meriweather, but the situation requires action. May I suggest your first action would be to speak to the vicar and his sister about assistance they have offered the smugglers?”
Edmund looked away from the triumphant glitter in Ashland’s eyes. The viscount must have directed the conversation to this point so he could shock Edmund with such a revelation. No, it was not a revelation. Only innuendo.
“I shall.” Standing, he said, “And there is no time like the present. The Fenwicks have gone to see what they can recover from the church, as well as any personal possessions. Why don’t we go and ask them together if your insinuations have any basis in truth?”
“I thought the church was completely destroyed.” Ashland remained seated, but his smile had vanished into a deep scowl.
“The building was, but items can survive even such an inferno.”
He leaned forward, his eyes slitting again. “What did you see when you climbed into the cellar?”
“I see gabble-grinders have been doing a strapping job of spreading the tale of my actions at the church.” He folded his arms, after ringing for a footman to bring the viscount’s outer wraps, as well as his own.
“Why are you avoiding giving me an answer to my question?” He set himself on his feet. “Are you trying to hide something, Meriweather?”
“Are you accusing me of being in collusion with the smugglers?”
“You? Working with the smugglers?” Ashland surprised him by laughing.
The viscount was not laughing at his question. Ashland was laughing at him. And why not? A baron who could make no decisions was hardly a man fit to give the smugglers orders of when and where to obtain their illegal wares. Did the whole world know of his humiliating affliction? It would seem so.
* * *
Vera heard the rattle of harness and carriage wheels and looked up from where she was placing a broken plate back on the ground. Brushing away the cloud of ashes that swirled on the sea wind, she was not surprised to see the Meriweather carriage slowing to a stop between the ruins of the church and the charred vicarage.
Happiness burst through her as unstoppable as the waves rolling out of the sea. And just as powerful. She was glad that Lord Meriweather had come from Meriweather Hall. He was calm and sturdy and...handsome. She ignored the end of that thought. He made her feel that her problems were his. He made her feel safe. He made her feel...lovely.
Was she addled? The last time she had let her mind lead her in that direction, she had almost destroyed her brother’s career. But lying to herself was foolish. When she was with the baron, she felt as if she were someone special, someone who could be described as more than the vicar’s sister, someone who had worth of her own.
The carriage door opened. She wiped her hands on her apron and straightened. Her spine protested, and she realized she had spent hours bent over as she picked through the ashes around the vicarage. With the roof falling in, she had not dared to go inside. Some of the men who had fought the flames had tossed some items out of the vicarage’s small kitchen, but only a handful of items had survived.
Her brother stared at the window where his office had been. He had not moved from that spot for the past hour. Her single attempt to comfort him had been for naught. When he’d asked her to leave him to his thoughts and prayers, she had agreed.
Shouts sounded around what remained of the church. The men working there had noticed Lord Meriweather’s carriage. They paused in their tasks, and she wondered if they were as eager as she was to listen to any plans the baron might have for rebuilding.
Her welcoming smile wavered when Lord Meriweather stepped out of the carriage, every inch of him bristling with the fury displayed on his face. That anger was hidden when another man emerged from the carriage.
Lord Ashland! What was the viscount doing here? He seldom came to the village, though he had attended services at the church several times in the past year.
Vera walked toward the men, curious what had caused even-tempered Lord Meriweather to wear such a grim expression. “Good day, my lords,” she called.
They paused when they reached her and greeted her politely. It was clear they had other issues on their minds.
“I’m glad you are here,” she said when silence fell between them. “The men have been working hard, as you’ll be able to see.”
“They aren’t the only ones.” Lord Meriweather’s face transformed as he smiled.
“What do you mean?”
“It appears you have been poking around the ashes, too, Miss Fenwick. You have a line of gray streaking your cheek.” He raised his hand, then drew it back with a glance at Lord Ashland who watched without comment.
“Oh, that must have happened one of the times I pushed aside my hair.” She looked at her filthy hands.
“Allow me.” Lord Meriweather pulled out a lawn handkerchief and handed it to her. When she looked at him in confusion, because she was not sure which of her cheeks was dirty, he pointed to the left side of his face.
“Thank you,” she said as she dabbed at the soot on her face. When she looked at the handkerchief, she was shocked how dirty her cheek must have been. She wondered why nobody else had mentioned it. Maybe they had not wanted to embarrass her, telling her that she looked like a chimney sweep.
She noticed Lord Ashland walking toward her brother. Maybe the viscount could offer Gregory solace on this difficult day.
“Have you found anything that was saved?” asked Lord Meriweather, drawing her eyes back to his.
She saw concern within those dark pools, but the storm that had raged there when he had exited the carriage could not be hidden. She almost asked what was amiss. She halted herself before she could overstep her place as the vicar’s sister.
“The cooking pans are blackened, but they can be cleaned and made useable again.” She looked at where her brother talked to Lord Ashland. “Not one of Gregory’s books was spared. I haven’t seen him this upset since...” She halted herself before she could spill the truth of what had happened before Gregory was given the living in Sanctuary Bay by a very generous Lord Meriweather. “There aren’t many things he prized as much as he did his collection of books.”
Lord Meriweather sighed. “He is welcome to use any books in Meriweather Hall.”
“Thank you, and he will avail himself of them, but he had some favorite volumes he will sorely miss.”
“I am sorry to hear that. I have contacts in London who may be able to find copies to replace them.”
Vera smiled. “I will let him know.” London prices would be too dear for a vicar, but she appreciated Lord Meriweather’s offer. She hoped Gregory would, as well, though knowing copies existed that he could not afford would add to his frustration.
She started to put the soiled handkerchief in her apron pocket, but Lord Meriweather said, “I can take that.”
“Are you sure? It’s dirty.”
He gave her a sad smile. “I daresay by the time I leave here, I will be far dirtier.” He held out his hand.
“That is true.”
His troubled expression drew his mouth down farther at the corners. “May I ask you a question?”
“Certainly. What about?” She placed the handkerchief on his outstretched palm.
A gust of wind threatened to steal it. She clamped her hand down on the fine linen at the exact same time he closed his fingers around hers. A shock rippled up her arm, a shock that was startling and pleasing at the same time. He drew in a quick breath, and she looked up at him. She saw her conflicting reaction mirrored on his face.
“Miss Fenwick...” His voice was as breathless as if he had run down the village’s steep street and back up. Twice.
“My lord...” She was unsure what to say after that, but she must say something. She could not stand with her hand in his. After what the footman had seen at Meriweather Hall, gossip would spread far and fast...exactly as it had last time.
That memory spurred her to slip her hand from his. “Thank you, my lord, for lending me your handkerchief.”
He did not reply as he gazed at her, as if he had never taken note of her before, and he was intrigued by what he saw.
Vera turned away as someone shouted, glad for the excuse to sever the invisible link between them. She closed her eyes and prayed, Dear Father, I must not forget what happened before. Lead me on the path I should walk, the path that makes sure I never risk Gregory’s work for You.
When she opened her eyes, Lord Meriweather was loping toward a man by the cellar. The man was waving excitedly to him.
Curiosity sent Vera after him at a slower pace among the gravestones that seemed lonely without the church standing guard over them. Both Lord Ashland and her brother passed her; by the time she reached the hole, the men were grouped around something on the ground. Lord Ashland was looking over the side but stepped back hastily before someone bumped into him and sent him down to the bottom of the cellar.
“Just brought it up, my lord,” someone said from the center of the group. “Can you believe it?”
Squeezing among the men, Vera gasped when somebody took her arm and popped her out of the crowd like a grain of sand between her fingers. She smiled at Gregory when he drew her to stand beside him. He gestured toward the ground in front of them.
“Oh, my!” She stared at the baptismal font that rested in three pieces by the cellar hole. The pedestal had broken twice, but the bowl was intact. Smoke and water stains brought the carved figures on the stone into higher relief. “I thought it was shattered.”
“So did I.” Lord Meriweather bent to examine the ancient font. One side was badly chipped. “Astounding! When I saw it in the cellar, I was sure it was destroyed.”
The men grinned.
A tall man she recognized as Luther Hinchliff, the village cooper, said, “We thought so, too, then realized the broken pieces were from the ceiling. The pedestal will have to be put back together, but otherwise it’s useable.”
“We can put it in the new church,” Gregory said, and Vera patted his arm. “God has shown His love by allowing this vital part of our church to come through the flames. Let us thank Him.” He took her left hand and reached out to the man on his left.
When a hand grasped her right one, the warmth coursing through her at the simple touch could have come only from Lord Meriweather.
She bowed her head as Gregory led them in prayer and added her silent thanks that her brother seemed revitalized by the discovery. A good night’s sleep had helped, too, but she had been worried about his state of mind when he had stood by the vicarage so long.
Everyone chorused heartfelt amens when Gregory finished. He reached past her to shake the hands of the men who had brought the font up from the cellar without damaging it further.
Beside her, Lord Meriweather said, “It’s a beginning.”
“Yes,” she said, unable to stop smiling. “We may not have a roof over our heads when we worship, but we can catch heaven’s rain to baptize our newest members.”
“A lovely thought, Miss Fenwick.” He squeezed her hand, and she pulled in a sharp breath. She had not realized he still held it, for it seemed natural to have her fingers enfolded within his. “With this beginning to inspire us, who knows what other blessings lie ahead of us?”
“Blessings? Finally some good news.” The voice came from behind her. She drew her hand out of Lord Meriweather’s and turned as the others did to see a pudgy man. His greatcoat was worn at the elbows, and the collar was frayed. His dark hair needed to be cut. Any hint of a shine had vanished from his boots.
Lord Ashland stepped forward. “Ah, Brooks, I should have known you would be here posthaste.” He motioned toward the rest of them. “You know the vicar and Miss Fenwick, of course. Have you met the new baron?”
The chubby man nodded his head toward Vera and her brother, then dipped his head more deeply toward Lord Meriweather. “Haven’t had the pleasure until now, though I did see you at Sir Nigel’s fall assembly. Too crowded to get to you so we might speak, my lord, that night. So many art lovers eager to admire Sir Nigel’s latest masterpieces. I assumed eventually our paths would cross again.” Mr. Brooks looked from the ruins of the church to the burned-out vicarage. “Vicar, I would guess you are the best one to bring me up-to-date on this tragedy. If you have the time, that is...”
“Of course, Mr. Brooks,” her brother said.
Mr. Brooks motioned for Gregory to walk with him away from the others. When Lord Ashland made to follow, Mr. Brooks gave him a stern look that stopped him in midstep.
The viscount scowled, then stamped toward the carriage. “Coming, Meriweather?” he called over his shoulder.
“In a few minutes.”
Vera was grateful that she stood far enough away from the viscount so she could not discern the words he growled under his breath.
Lord Meriweather watched Lord Ashland for a moment, then shook his head and sighed. He clasped his hands behind his back. “Miss Fenwick, who is Brooks?”
“Cuthbert Brooks is the local justice of the peace.”
“That man is the justice of the peace?”
Vera kept her voice low. “Do not let his self-effacing image fool you. He is a brilliant man when it comes to keeping the peace in the Sanctuary Bay parish.”
“He has been of little use with stopping the smugglers.”
“But there has been less violence than in other places along the shore.”
“Possibly because the smugglers know better than to upset their well-placed leader.”
“That is something I cannot forget,” she whispered.
“Nor I.”
Vera was astonished when Lord Meriweather glanced at where Lord Ashland was climbing into the carriage. Did the baron have suspicions about the viscount’s involvement with the smugglers?
She had heard enough whispers to know that the smugglers took their orders from someone of wealth and prestige. The viscount fit that description, as did Sir Nigel. Mr. Brooks was not as plump in the pockets as the other two, but he held much sway in the parish as the justice of the peace.
“As a good host,” Lord Meriweather said with a sigh, “I should escort Ashland back to Meriweather Hall. I have no idea why he wanted to come here.” He glanced at the baptismal font.
“With the recovery of the font,” she said, “the parishioners are going to be even more eager to have the church rebuilt.”
