A Bride for the Baron. Jo Brown Ann
“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