A Hero for Christmas

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“If I may, can I ask what she sought your advice about?” he asked.

Meriweather gave his cravat a final twist before he answered. “You.”

“Me?”

“She was bothered by your darker side, which she had not encountered before that morning on the shore.”

Jonathan was brought up short. He had not guessed that Cat had been so distressed by his anger at himself.

“And there may be more,” Meriweather said as he considered his cravat. “She may have been troubled by your attempt to rescue that child.”

“What?” He came to his feet. “You cannot believe she would ever allow a child to be endangered.”

Meriweather faced him. Raising his hands, he motioned for Jonathan to sit again. As soon as Jonathan had complied, Meriweather said, “You mistake my meaning. It is not your actions that would have upset her. Just the fact that both you and the child were in danger in the sea.” He went to where his brightly polished boots waited by a stool. “I have heard enough in the past couple of months to know that she was involved with a young man before the war. His name was Roland something-or-other. He joined the navy and died in battle.” He sat and tugged on a boot, grimacing. “I probably should say no more.”

“Probably not.”

Meriweather stood to stamp his heel down in the tight boot. “Or maybe you should know. Help me here.”

Jonathan stepped forward to grasp the top of the boot so his friend could force his foot into it.

“Not with the boot!” Meriweather stamped away, his foot partially in the boot. “Help me with deciding if I should tell you or not. Rip me! I can’t even make the simplest decision.” He sat and slumped in a nearby chair. “Will I ever stop doubting myself?”

“You are asking me for more help than I can give.” His heart ached for his friend, and he knew of only one solution. “If you take this problem to God, He will help you.”

“Don’t you think I have already done that? Every night and every morn, I pray for God to show me His mercy and help me rediscover how to make even the simplest decision.” Meriweather waved his hands to halt Jonathan’s reply. “I know what you are about to say, because it is what I would say if our situations were reversed. God’s time is different from man’s. We must be patient.”

“That is what I would say,” he replied, though he thought of how often he was impatient for the chance to prove that God had been right to let him survive the battlefield.

Meriweather finally jammed his foot all the way into his boot. Resting his elbows on his knees, he looked up at Jonathan. “I thank God that one of us came through war relatively unscathed.”

Jonathan gulped so loudly he was surprised his friend did not react. He should tell Meriweather the truth that haunted him. He could not. He turned on his heel and walked out. He was halfway down the stairs before he realized Meriweather had not told him about the young man who had touched Cat’s heart. It served Jonathan right not to hear the truth when he could not speak it himself.

* * *

The breakfast-parlor was empty when Catherine entered it. Two days had passed since she had sought her cousin’s advice, and that afternoon had splintered with anger. Despite Mr. Bradby’s determination to speak immediately to her cousin, she had seen no sign of any mending of the differences between them.

Not that she had seen either of them often. Her fitting sessions with Mme. Dupont were aimed at providing her with the best designs possible for her sojourn in London, but most of the gowns the modiste suggested were, in Catherine’s opinion, silly. Yesterday she had told Mme. Dupont that she had some ideas of her own and would bring them to the session today. She suspected the seamstress agreed only to placate her. Mme. Dupont was due for a surprise when she saw the patterns Catherine had completed late last night after spending the evening scanning magazines from London. La Belle Assemblée, Ackerman’s Repository and The Lady’s Magazine had given her ideas, and she had added her own touches for clothing that would be both useful and beautiful. She focused on one gown, which she could wear to the British Museum for her visit to the Elgin Marbles. It must be a shell pink, because that was the color she had imagined wearing when she and Roland went to visit the ancient carvings. He always told her that she looked her best when she wore pink.

Before she showed the designs to Mme. Dupont, she wanted Sophia’s opinion. She had hoped Sophia would be at breakfast when she arrived.

Catherine put her sketchbook on a chair at the table and then went to the sideboard where steaming servers held eggs, oatmeal, muffins and more than a dozen other choices. Taking a plate, she spooned some eggs onto it, and then selected sausages that smelled of apple cider and black pepper.

At the sound of boot heels behind her, she looked over her shoulder. Her smile wavered when Mr. Bradby entered the breakfast-parlor. He wore a bright blue coat and a yellow waistcoat over black breeches. When he moved past a window, his ginger hair caught fire.

He walked to the table. If he espied her sketchbook, he was sure to ask her about it. She did not want to admit to her love of art and chance that he would think of it as a waste of time, as one young man had coldly described her work when he had called at Meriweather Hall. Also there were articles about the Elgin Marbles, clipped from newspapers, pasted into the back of the book. If he saw those, he was sure to be curious why she was intrigued with the ancient Greek sculptures. She wanted to avoid speaking of the promise she had made to Roland until she had fulfilled it. Maybe she should pull out the pages with her sketches for Mme. Dupont before she showed them to Sophia.

But for now... She gave a moment’s thought to rushing to the chair where she had left her drawings, then halted herself. Acting so out of hand could draw his attention to her sketchbook.

“Good morning,” Catherine said, hoping her voice sounded carefree. “Either we are very early or very late.”

“The former.” He met her eyes steadily. The rage she had seen after their time on the shore was now gone, replaced by regret. “Your cousin should be down in a few minutes.”

She set her plate on the table, then poured herself a cup of coffee. Casual. Just act casual. She carried the steaming cup to where she usually sat. Placing it next to her plate, she drew out her chair and sat, sliding the sketchbook onto her lap.

She had no idea if she betrayed her tension somehow, or if Mr. Bradby had extra-keen eyes. “What is that?” he asked as he sat across from her.

She put the sketchbook on the floor by her feet, putting the toe of one slipper on it. “A book I have been enjoying.” That was the truth, and she hoped he would not question her further. “Did you get one of Mrs. Porter’s blueberry muffins? They are a rare treat.”

“I did.” He looked down at his plate. “May I give our thanks for this wonderful meal?”

“Of course.”

He bowed his head, and she did the same, hoping—as she did each time someone said grace or she attended church—that she would again feel God’s comforting presence. The loss of Him in her life added to her grief from losing Papa.

“Lord,” Mr. Bradby said, “we thank You for Your benevolence in bringing us to this table on the beautiful morning You made. We are grateful for the food we are about to eat, and we are grateful for having each other in our lives.”

Catherine was glad her head was down so he could not see her amazement. After how he had acted the last time they spoke, she had not expected him to speak of having her in his life, especially in prayer that should come from the heart.

“Amen,” she said after he had. “That was lovely, Mr. Bradby.”

She reached for her fork, but paused when he asked, “Would you be offended if I asked you to call me by my given name in exchange for permission to address you as informally?”

She smiled. “Is that a very convoluted way of asking me if I’d feel comfortable calling you Jonathan?”

“I am a solicitor. Not too long ago in the past, my ilk was paid by the word. It is a habit that has been passed down ever since.” He leaned one elbow on the table and smiled. “But, Miss Catherine, you have yet to give me an answer to my question.”

“If I understand your question—and that is a mighty if—then, yes, I would be pleased to have you call me by my given name, and I shall do the same when I speak with you.” She pushed his elbow off the table. “Solicitor, one must mind one’s manners here.”

“Truly?”

She laughed, glad that he was once again the funny man whose company she had enjoyed during his last visit. “If my mother was here, she would be shocked by a gentleman with his elbow on the table.”

“I shall endeavor to make sure my manners are the pattern-card of perfection by the time Lady Meriweather returns.” He stood and bowed deeply to her, sweeping out his arm like a grand courtier.

“Are we too late for the dance?” asked Cousin Edmund as he and Sophia walked into the breakfast-parlor.

Jonathan laughed. “We were just being silly.”

She looked from her cousin to Jonathan and back, relieved when they both smiled. Cousin Edmund must have accepted Jonathan’s apology. For that she was very grateful. Christmas was the time of year for good spirits, not angry ones.

The light conversation continued while her cousin and sister served themselves and came to the table. Catherine let the others chat while she listened. Later she would show Sophia her sketches. For now she would enjoy the companionable meal.

She looked up startled when Cousin Edmund’s voice took on a sharper edge as he talked of more serious matters. “Those curs dared to threaten Alfred Demaine and his mother.”

Alfred had been appointed by Cousin Edmund to take over the position as gamekeeper on the estate. He was not yet twenty, but he had learned the job from his late father, who had held it for more than thirty years.

She gripped the edge of the table, horrified that anyone had menaced Alfred and his kindly mother whose cottage was beyond the stables. Jonathan mumbled something under his breath, and she glanced at him. He was appalled by the threat to the Demaines. Even though he was not part of Meriweather Hall, she remembered Cousin Edmund saying that fairness was important to him.

She had no doubt who had bullied the Demaines. “Why would the smugglers do that?”

“To keep them close to their cottage,” Cousin Edmund replied. “It happened last night. The lad was so terrified to leave his mother alone that he didn’t come to tell me until after dawn. He knows the smugglers usually seek their holes as soon as the sun rises, so he believed that she should be safe. I am not as certain as Alfred is that the smugglers are abroad only after dark.”

“If he spoke with them...” Jonathan began. The smugglers were becoming too bold. Maybe their overconfidence would be the route to their downfall.

He looked around the table. Both Cat’s and her sister’s faces were blanched. Meriweather’s mouth was a straight line, and fury radiated from him.

“I know what you’re hoping, Bradby, but no,” Meriweather said. “He cannot identify them by either their voices or by their clothing. There were four men. They wore work clothing, but with kerchiefs pulled up over their faces, and their caps drawn low. Alfred said one man spoke in a low growl that sounded more like a beast than a human.”

“To frighten them more.” Cat fisted her hands on the table. “This must stop!”

“I agree.” Meriweather’s face was grim. “I know your father tried to work out an agreement with them to stay off the lands of Meriweather Hall, but that failed. Even if it had worked, it is not my intention to let bullies have their way.”

“So what do we do?” asked Miss Meriweather.

Cat got up and went around the table to give her sister a hug. Jonathan sighed. No wonder Miss Meriweather was distressed. She had nearly had a run-in with the smugglers a couple of months ago, and the incident had scared Cat’s usually courageous sister who had feared for Northbridge and his children.

“That is the question, isn’t it?” asked Meriweather.

Jonathan clenched his hands in his lap. They had reached the impasse again; the place where his friend needed to make a decision, and he was unable to do so. Wishing he could think of something to say to help him, Jonathan looked away.

His gaze connected with Cat’s. She was as discouraged as he was about Meriweather, and he wished he could offer some solution.

Lord, he prayed, Meriweather is a good man. Help him trust himself again.

“What about going to Sir Nigel?” asked Miss Meriweather.

Jonathan looked reluctantly away from Cat as Meriweather said, “He has offered to help, but he has not done anything.”

“Maybe if he learns of this threat to our people, he will consider doing more,” Cat said. “It could be his people next.”

“What do you think?” Meriweather asked Cat and Sophia. “Is it worth talking to Sir Nigel again?”

“We must take care that no one belonging to Meriweather Hall comes to harm.” Miss Meriweather glanced at her cousin, then back at Cat. “Unless you have a better idea, I say we should reach out to Sir Nigel one more time. Perhaps Lord Ashland, as well.”

“That sounds like a good idea, though I have no eagerness to call upon Sir Nigel again so soon.” Meriweather looked relieved that someone had made the decision for him. “I shall give Lord Ashland a call in the coming week. Maybe he will have some good ideas.”

“We could,” Jonathan said quietly, “pray that God freezes the sea, and that will keep the smugglers from their nefarious deeds.”