A Hero For Christmas

“Like this one!” Miss Fenwick bent and picked up something from the sand. “Oh, it is only a piece of shell.” She tossed it back to the ground.

“Where do you want me to look?” he asked.

Cat pointed to small stones that had been left in a line along the beach. “Why don’t you start there? I will follow the other line of stones closer to the water, and Vera can search next to the cliffs.”

Even though he would have preferred to walk beside Cat so he could admire her pretty face, Jonathan moved to the strip of stones. “This is a great length of beach,” he called over the rhythmic crash of the waves. “How long do we have before the tide comes in?”

Cat put her hand to her forehead to shade her eyes. “At least a couple of hours. I can still see the scaurs even though the waves are high.”

He copied her motion so he could see through the sun’s glare on the waves. “What is a scaur?”

“That rocky ridge in the harbor, the one the waves are breaking over.” She walked toward him so they did not have to shout. “Papa told me that the word derives from a Viking one for rock. Scaur...” She said the word slowly as if tasting how it felt on her lips.

He quickly looked away. He should not be thinking of her lips or any woman’s. Not while he clung to his lie. He repeated his prayer silently, hoping he would be shown the right path soon.

“Found one!” Cat held up a piece of glass no bigger than his smallest fingernail. “A green one.”

“May I?” asked Jonathan.

She placed the mermaid tear in his hand. The edges were as smooth as if they had been ground by a machine. Its time in the sea had given it a milky color. When he held it up and looked through it, he could see it had been pitted and scraped by salt and sand.

“Isn’t it lovely?” Cat asked.

“I had no idea that glass would look like that after being in the sea.” He dropped the piece in her hand and watched as she put it with care into the bucket. “Are they all that size?”

“All different sizes.” She motioned along the beach. “And various colors, so don’t assume it is not glass simply because it is white or brown.”

For the next hour, Jonathan walked along the beach between the two women. He had a difficult time concentrating on his task. Rather than look at the stone-strewn sand, he would prefer to admire Cat. Her cheeks were burnished by the wind, and her laugh lightened his heart. Each time she glanced in his direction, he hurriedly shifted his gaze back to the ground.

Why hadn’t he told her about his concerns with her embarking on a Season in London? He had had the perfect opportunity when they rode from Meriweather Hall to the vicarage. He should have said something, but he had enjoyed laughing along with her too much to bring up the dreary subject. And what could he have said? Don’t go to London and let the Beau Monde change you as it changed my sister. As it cost me the one woman I loved.

But it had taught him an important lesson. He would be a cabbage-head to lose his heart again to any woman who was part of the ton. If his heart had half the sense God gave a goose, it would lead him to a sensible woman like Vera Fenwick, who had no aspirations of a Season in London. Or perhaps he should emulate his mentor Lippincott and become a confirmed bachelor.

He needed to concentrate on the task at hand, but he found himself growing more frustrated. Because he did not find any mermaid tears? Or because he was close to Cat but too far away to chat with her without shouting?

As if she had heard his thoughts, she called, “Have you found anything?”

“I think,” he said, “I need to borrow some of the pieces you have found, so I might make a pair of spectacles out of them.” He paused, pretending to be deep in thought before adding, “Though it might not be wise to don what so many call barnacles when yon fishermen are scraping one and the same off their boats.”

That set both Cat and Miss Fenwick to laughing. Jonathan joined in, but his own laughter was forced. The jokes flowed off his lips without him being able to halt them. He would prefer to speak to Cat of things that mattered to her and to him. Instead, whenever he longed to say something serious to her, a jest burst from him.

Bowing his head, he continued to walk along the shore. Now he wanted to escape his own weakness, a legacy from the war that no medicine could cure.

He gave an exultant shout a short time later when, for the first time, he picked up a glittering tidbit and found it was a mermaid tear. Putting it in his pocket, he went on, becoming more adept at determining which pieces were glass and which were broken shells.

He heard a sharp cry. A gull? He looked up, but did not see any of the sea birds overhead. They still circled around the fishermen, eager for an easy meal.

Miss Fenwick yelled and pointed at the sea. Shading his eyes again, he looked in that direction. Something dark bobbed on the waves. A seal?

The cry came again, and he saw arms waving next to the dark spot on the water.

It was a child!

Being swept out to sea!

Jonathan did not hesitate. Here was his chance to prove to God and himself that he was worthy of being called a hero. Shrugging off his coat, he shoved it into Miss Fenwick’s hands as she ran toward him.

“Don’t dump the glass out of the pockets,” he warned, as he yanked off one boot and then the other.

He threw them onto the beach and ran toward the water. He heard shouts behind him. The only voice he recognized was Cat’s, but he did not slow. The child might be dragged down by the next wave.

The icy water froze his toes within seconds, and he gasped with the shock of the cold when he dove beneath the next wave. He fought the water’s pull that tried to send him back to the shore. Cutting as fast as he dared through the water, he heard more shouts. The words were lost to the wind and the sea. He looked up every few strokes to make sure he was headed in the right direction.

The child was being pulled out to sea faster than Jonathan was swimming. He sliced through the next wave and did not pause to raise his head. Ice seemed to be forming around his toes and fingers, and he had to fight to keep them moving. He could not slow. He had to get to the child. He had to save the child. Then he would be a hero.

Save the child.

Be a hero.

Save the child.

Be a hero.

He kept repeating that in his mind in time with his strokes to keep himself from slowing as the cold water began to gnaw at him.

Something splashed in the water beside him. The child! Had he reached the child?

He raised his head, shocked by how much energy the simple motion demanded. Instead of a child, he saw a coble.

A hand appeared in front of his nose, and he halted.

“Hey up, mate,” called a voice from above him. “Grab on and climb up.”

“Save the child,” he said. Or he tried to say it, but the words blurred through his chattering teeth.

The four fishermen in the coble must have guessed what he meant because one said in a heavy Yorkshire accent, “The barn is gat.”

“What?”

“The barn is gat.” The hand gestured toward where the child had been.

He saw another boat there. Two men were lifting the youngster out of the water and into that boat.

With a sigh, Jonathan nodded. The man’s strange words must have been telling him that the child had been saved. Grasping the man’s hand, he let himself be pulled up into the boat. He shivered in the bottom of the deep boat until someone tossed him a blanket that stunk of fish scales and sweat. He did not care, as he pulled it around his shoulders.

He said nothing, as the men rowed back to the shore where Cat and Miss Fenwick paced uneasily. What was he going to say to them? Now he recalled Cat’s shout. Most likely she had been trying to tell him that the fishermen were far more experienced than he was in saving someone in the sea. Not only had they rescued the child but him.

This hero stuff was going to be harder than he had guessed.

Chapter Three

As soon as the coble was pulled up on the beach, Catherine ran toward it, pausing only to pick up Mr. Bradby’s boots. She reached the boat at the same time Mr. Bradby was stepping over its high side. He wobbled, and she grasped his elbow to keep him from collapsing to the sand. A tingle swept up her arm, just as it had when he had handed her into the carriage back at Meriweather Hall, but this time she did not release her hold on his arm. Ignoring the delightful sensation, she focused on him.

He was dripping, even though the blanket had soaked up some water from his clothes. His sleeves were already stiffening from the salt and the chilly wind. When she proffered his boots, he snatched them and upended both to shake any sand out.

“That was the bravest thing I have ever seen,” Catherine said.

He tried to reply, but his words were garbled by his chattering teeth. When triumphant shouts came from closer to the village, he looked past her.

She turned, not letting go of his arm, to see another coble sliding onto the stones at the bottom of the street. A little boy was plucked out of the boat and handed to his mother who hugged him close, even as she scolded him for going too close to the water. Both mother and son were wrapped in more blankets as the rescuers led them up the steep street.

The men with Mr. Bradby slapped him companionably on the back. They started to make a few jokes at his expense but stopped at a firm look from Catherine. Or it might have been the pastor’s sister coming to join them. The fishermen put their fingers to the brims of their floppy hats, before they pushed the coble back into the waves and rowed toward the village.

Vera draped Mr. Bradby’s coat over his shoulders. “Can you walk?”

“Of course.” His words were clipped.

When he did not move, Catherine asked, “Do you need help with your boots?”

“I can manage quite well on my own.” He looked at her for the first time since he had come ashore. Anger blazed from his eyes. “If you would be so kind as to release my arm...”

Catherine jerked away, startled as much that she still held on to him as by his terse words. When he swayed again as he pulled on first one boot, then the other, she grabbed his arm before he could fall on his face. She let go quickly, but he still glared in her direction before stamping away along the sand. He started to pull on his coat, then slung it over his shoulder.

“What is upsetting him?” Vera asked as she and Catherine followed.

“I have no idea. Maybe he is annoyed that he didn’t get to rescue the child himself.”

“What does it matter who saved the child? We must be grateful to the good Lord that the child is safe along with Mr. Bradby and the other brave rescuers. God is good to heed our prayers.”

“Yes.” She envied Vera’s unshakable belief that God listened to each of her supplications.

Vera frowned. “I never imagined Mr. Bradby using such an icy tone. When last he called at Meriweather Hall, he was jolly and joking. Now he is grim.”

“I know.” Catherine had no other answer. She was as baffled as her bosom-bow.

Something must have happened out in the water that they had not been privy to on the shore. She could not imagine what that might be nor could she ask Mr. Bradby when fishermen still gathered at the foot of the street.

When the men called out greetings to Mr. Bradby, he nodded in their direction but did not speak. He remained mute as they climbed the steep street. A trail of drips marked his uneven steps. Several times Catherine had to steady him, and she heard exhaustion in his breathing as they crossed the bridge over the beck. He muttered something when Catherine linked her arm with his when he stumbled yet again.

“You may be petulant if you choose,” she said, giving him a frown as fierce as his, “but I choose not to see you fall on your nose.”

Vera looped her arm through his other arm, silencing any further protests from Mr. Bradby.

They reeled up the steepest part of the street, which seemed as vertical as the cliffs beyond the village. Catherine doubted Mr. Bradby could have made the climb on his own. His steps slowed, and he was panting by the time they reached the top. With the coachee’s help and Vera’s, Catherine assisted Mr. Bradby into the carriage. He sat heavily and leaned his head back against the seat.

Vera caught Catherine’s arm before she entered the carriage. Catherine looked at her, surprised, and asked, “What is it?”

“I will walk to the vicarage,” Vera said, as she dug into her pocket and pulled out a handful of mermaid tears. She placed them carefully in Catherine’s hand. “You are welcome to bring him there, if you wish.”

“I think it would be for the best to take him to Meriweather Hall where he won’t have to go back out in the cold again, just as he is getting warmed up.”

“I agree.” She glanced at the carriage. “I thought you might want a haven, too.”

Catherine smiled. “I am sure his usual good humor will return once he has dry clothing and something warm inside him.”

Vera nodded but did not look convinced.

Rightly so, Catherine discovered, when she climbed into the carriage. Mr. Bradby neither looked in her direction nor did he speak all the way back to Meriweather Hall. The damp wind coming off the sea was cold but not as frosty as the silence in the carriage. Catherine tried to start a conversation once and then gave up. Even when the carriage turned through the gates of Meriweather Hall, he said nothing.

She got out on her own and directed the footman who came to greet the carriage to assist Mr. Bradby. Hurrying inside, she gave instructions to another footman to have tea and bottles filled with hot water delivered to his chambers.

Only when she was going upstairs did she remember that she had not thanked Mr. Bradby for helping her and Vera collect mermaid tears. Her steps faltered, but she kept going. She did not have the courage to face him again, when he was in such a snappish mood.

She was going so quickly that she almost ran into her sister who was coming in the opposite direction at an equally determined pace.

“Where have you been?” asked Sophia. “I have been looking everywhere in the house for you.”

“I was—”

Her sister gave Catherine no chance to explain. “You should have told me where you had gone,” said Sophia, usually so calm, as she rubbed her hands together anxiously. Everything about the upcoming wedding seemed to leave her on edge. “Mme. Dupont is furious that you have missed another fitting. You know we have barely six weeks to get everything done.”

Catherine sighed. “I forgot about this morning’s fittings. We went down to the beach, and our appointment with Mme. Dupont slipped my mind.”

“The beach? Why would you go to the beach on such a blustery day?”

“For your wedding breakfast. I know how you love mermaid tears, so I’ve been collecting them since you announced your betrothal. Think how pretty they will look scattered on the tables.”

Sophia’s eyes grew round. “What a wonderful idea! Oh, I wished I had your artistic imagination. I never would have thought of such a thing.” She swept her sister into a big embrace. “I’m so glad to have you overseeing the wedding breakfast. It will be unforgettable.”

“Yes, it will.” She hoped it would be memorable for the right reasons, rather than the fact that she had made a muddle of it. “We were able to find quite a bit. Vera joined us looking for the pieces of glass.”

“Us?”

“Mr. Bradby helped, too.”

A smile brightened Sophia’s face. “So that is how he got soaked! I saw him coming into the house, dripping wet. Ogden had one of the maids trailing Mr. Bradby with a cloth to wipe up the floors. Did a big wave splash him?”

Catherine walked with her sister along the corridor as she gave a quick explanation of how Mr. Bradby had jumped into the sea to save a child. “He paused only long enough to give Vera the mermaid tears he had found. Which gave the fishermen a chance to launch their cobles and reach the boy before Mr. Bradby did.”

Sophia turned the corner toward the hallway that led to their rooms. “What a brave man!”

“That is what I said, but he brushed aside my words as if he didn’t want to hear them.”

“Heroes can be like that. They do something amazing but don’t want to talk about it afterward.”

Catherine considered her sister’s insight. Was that the reason Mr. Bradby had been tight-lipped? Her efforts to draw him out had been for naught, and if he had not spoken with Vera too, Catherine would have wondered if she had distressed him somehow.

And the anger she had seen in his eyes. Vera had been right. That fury seemed to belong to someone other than Jonathan Bradby, who had always been ready to make them laugh. What else lurked in the depths he had hidden so successfully? She needed to talk with Cousin Edmund, who had known him during the war. Maybe her cousin could offer some insight into Mr. Bradby’s peculiar behavior.

That would have to wait until she endured the fitting she had missed. The modiste jumped to her feet when Catherine followed Sophia into her sister’s room. A book dropped to the floor, and Mme. Dupont quickly picked it up and shoved it into her bag.

Catherine bit her lower lip to keep from smiling when she saw the author’s name emblazoned on the cover: Mrs. Ross. She hadn’t guessed the seamstress read gothic novels where even heroes and heroines went into decline and died before the end of the story. Such fanciful stories for a woman who insisted on acting practical at all times.

“I am sorry to keep you waiting, Mme. Dupont,” Catherine said to cover the modiste’s embarrassment.

“Non, non.” Mme. Dupont was once again determined to be in charge. “You are my customer. You have—how do they say?—no need to apologize to moi.”

Catherine tried not to roll her eyes at the seamstress’s fake French accent. To do that would chance making Sophia laugh, and they both would earn another scowl from the self-styled Mme. Dupont. The seamstress’s name was probably a very English one, but she clearly thought posing as a French modiste was good for her business.

Mme. Dupont waved her hand at the middle of the room. “Come, come, mademoiselle.”

Catherine had to admit that, despite her charade, Mme. Dupont was skilled with a needle. The wedding dress she was making for Sophia was the most beautiful Catherine had ever seen. It was unblemished white with delicate lace accenting the modest neckline, and the design was perfect for a tall, slender woman like her sister. The sketches Mme. Dupont had made for the gown Catherine would wear to the wedding had different lines because she was more than six inches shorter than Sophia.

“Get up on ze box,” Mme. Dupont continued, “so I can measure you for ze gowns.”

“Gowns?” asked Catherine, surprised. “I need only one for the wedding.”

“But,” her sister argued, “you need a full wardrobe for your Season in London. You will want to catch eyes when you attend soirees and assemblies.”

She nodded, though she doubted she would be there long. Only long enough to go to the British Museum to view the Elgin Marbles. What would her sister and Cousin Edmund think if she spoke of her plans and how she had no expectations of any man proposing to her? Even if one did, she would have to decline his offer of marriage. The idea of losing someone else she loved was too painful even to think about. Tears welled up in her eyes, but she was unsure if they were for Roland or her father or both.

“We want you to look your best, Cat,” Sophia went on.

“I thought you agreed not to call me that.”

Sophia put her hands on Catherine’s shoulders. With Catherine standing on the box, her sister’s eyes were level with hers. “I’m sorry, but I know how important going to London is for you.”

For a moment, Catherine believed that her sister had discovered the true reason for her longing to visit London. Then Sophia began to talk about needing several gowns for afternoon calls as well as riding clothes for Hyde Park and undergarments.

“All the clothing must be ready before Miss Catherine leaves for London,” Sophia said to Mme. Dupont who was making hasty notes. “Lord Meriweather intends to go up to London for the opening of Parliament at the end of January, and my sister will be traveling with him. Will it be possible to finish everything in time, Mme. Dupont?”

The seamstress looked aghast. “Miss Meriweather, you know I will try my best, but the end of January is only a few weeks after your wedding.”

Sophia’s voice grew whetted. “I know we have asked a lot of you and your seamstresses. Be honest with us, Mme. Dupont. If you cannot do this, you must graciously step aside. My sister must not be held up for ridicule by the ton because her clothing is unworthy of her position.”

Catherine was not astonished by her sister’s uncharacteristic vehemence. The London Season remained a prickly topic for Sophia. Her only Season had been cut short when a man she had thought cared for her had instead humiliated her in front of the Polite World. That had hurt her so deeply that she had fled back to Sanctuary Bay and had made her so suspicious of men that she almost ruined her relationship with Charles.

Maybe Catherine should be square with her sister. If Sophia understood that Catherine did not anticipate a match in Town, then that might set Sophia’s heart at ease.

“Sophia, that’s not necessary,” Catherine said.

“But it is.”

Glancing at Mme. Dupont, who was listening avidly, Catherine knew she could not speak the truth now. “I will need only a portion of these items when I leave. The rest can be delivered when Mme. Dupont has completed them.”

“That is true. Let me decide what the absolute minimum is you will need when you leave with Cousin Edmund.” Sophia tapped her chin with a single fingertip, then picked up the list she had compiled. She placed checks next to some items. When she was done, less than half of the items had been ticked. Handing it to Mme. Dupont, she asked, “Can you finish these in time for my sister’s departure?”

“Oui,” the seamstress said, after she had studied the page. “As well as a few other items.”

“If you can complete the ones I marked before Miss Catherine travels to London, then I’m sure my sister will commission you to do the rest.”

“Oui, oui, oui.” The modiste nodded her head in time with her agreement. She aimed a gleaming smile at Catherine.

The normally prattling Mme. Dupont said very little during the rest of the fitting. Catherine was equally quiet, abiding without comment the inadvertent prick of the pins as Mme. Dupont checked the seams and adjusted them. Finally she was done. She gathered her supplies and left, saying that she had all she needed for finishing Catherine’s gown and would be back on the morrow for a fitting with Sophia.

Catherine dropped onto the chaise longue by her sister’s biggest window and leaned her arm against her forehead in an exaggerated pose. “I’m not sure how much longer I can endure Mme. Dupont’s attention.”

With a laugh, Sophia pushed Catherine’s arm away from her head. She sat beside the chaise longue. “She said she was finished with you.”

“On one gown only. Once you are satisfied with your wedding gown, her attention will be fully on me again.” She sat up. “Really, Sophia, I don’t need a complete new wardrobe for this short trip up to London.”

“Short?”

Catherine looked away from her sister’s abrupt frown, as she scolded herself for speaking without thinking. “Sophia, you warned me that time goes quickly during the Season with all its events and calls.”

“True.” Her sister’s smile returned. “I want everything to be perfect for you. I have noticed Mme. Dupont annoys you. With the promise of more work, she will be on her best behavior.”

“I appreciate that.”

“You are doing so much for me. How could I not do something for you?”