A Bride for the Baron. Jo Ann Brown
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.