Jo Brown - A Bride for the Baron

Again Vera clasped her hands. She wanted to thank Lord Meriweather for accompanying her, but the words stuck in her throat. Her limbs felt heavy, then light, then a ripple of sensation like a million frantic insects. She tried to relax. She could not. She and Gregory had spent the past ten years serving the church set on the cliff above the village. She had grown up there, for she had been a girl when they had first arrived.

A foolish girl who nearly had ruined her brother’s career. Even though Gregory never spoke of it, neither of them would ever forget her stupid belief that the son of Lord Hedgcoe truly loved her. Her youthful foolishness, for she had been barely fifteen, had led to disaster and Gregory being removed in shame from the parish Lord Hedgcoe controlled. If the late Lord Meriweather had not offered Gregory the living at Sanctuary Bay, she was unsure what they would have done.

She looked toward the sea. How she had come to love this bay with its turbulent waves and its capricious winds! A sunny morn could end in a wild storm. She caught a view of the village where it clung to the cliffs, the gray-and-red roofs bright against the winter fields. The road turned before she could glimpse the church. Or what was left of it.

Lord Meriweather cleared his throat. “Lady Meriweather asked me to remind you that you and the vicar are welcome to stay at Meriweather Hall as long as necessary.” He stared out the window rather than meet her eyes. “Assuming it is necessary, of course.”

“Thank you. I appreciate you coming with me to th-th-he ch-ch-church.” Her voice broke on the last two words. In so many ways, Sanctuary Bay was her church as much as it was her brother’s. Since she had almost cost Gregory his career in the church, she had slipped into a life of helping in the background. More and more often, she had taken on the task of writing his Sunday sermons while Gregory kept himself busy with other parish duties. When he read her sermons from the pulpit, she could not keep from sneaking glances at other people in the pews, always wondering if her words had touched their hearts.

Lord Meriweather’s gaze focused on her. “Miss Fenwick, I am sure there are many pretty words that might offer you solace at this time, but I am sorry that I am not a man accustomed to speaking such words. Before I served the king, I spent my days working with rough men who are as skilled with crude cant as they are with tools.” He drew in a deep breath and sighed it out loudly enough that she could hear it over the breeze from the sea.

Vera tried to think of something to say but was afraid that if she opened her mouth sobs would come out. Again her emotions went up and down like a storm wave, crashing her hopes into many shattered pieces.

She continued to gaze at the sea until she heard Lord Meriweather pull in a sharp gasp. She sat straighter and realized, while she had been making an effort to think of nothing, they had reached the top of the village where the church and vicarage were. Shouts rang through the carriage, but she did not catch any of the words.

The tone was unmistakable, though. Anger. Fear. Regret. Pain. All those emotions and more were woven through the voices.

Odors of smoke and wet wood hung in the air, tainting every breath she took.

She remembered that smell from when a fire had burned through a side street in the village. The reek of soaked wood had lingered over the village for almost a month. Each new storm brought it forth again until the cottages were rebuilt.

Her stomach dropped as the last drops of hope evaporated. She turned to the other window, but Lord Meriweather’s hands clamped on her shoulders. Surprised, she looked at him. His mouth was drawn, and she saw lines on his brow and gouging into his cheeks that she had never noticed before.

“It is bad, isn’t it?” she whispered.

He nodded.

“Very bad?”

Again he nodded.

“All gone?” She had to force the words past her lips.

“Yes.” His jaw worked, then he said, “If you wish to return to Meriweather Hall now and come back here when you have had a chance to rest from our long journey, say so.”

It was tempting. To push aside the problem and pretend it did not exist, but that was not her way. “I appreciate your kindness, my lord. However, delaying will not make my first sight any easier.”

“I thought you would say that. You are fortunate to have a quiet courage, Miss Fenwick, that is admirable.”

Even though she guessed he intended to warn her to be prepared for what awaited her, his words sent a surge of warmth through her to ease the cold surrounding her fearful heart.

Lord Meriweather stepped out of the carriage and offered his hand to assist her. As she reached for his hand, the courage he had complimented deserted her. She still had not been able to look out the window toward what was left of the two buildings. The church and her home. Once she emerged from the carriage, she would come face-to-face with the disaster.

“It can only get better from this point,” he said quietly, as if she had spoken her thoughts aloud.

She clutched his hand as she climbed out of the carriage. When he winced, she realized she had a death grip on his fingers. She released his hand, but he took hers and placed it on his sleeve. Without saying a word, he led her around the carriage. The wind battered them. Ashes rose into the air in miniature cyclones before falling, turning the ground into a gray wasteland.

Vera’s knees threatened to collapse beneath her when she saw nothing remained of the church. The stone walls had fallen to the ground, scorched by the power of the fire. Upon first glance, the vicarage appeared as if it had survived with less damage. Smoke stains, like dark gray fingers clawing out of the windows and the doorway, warned that the fire had reigned inside the cottage, gutting the interior. The roof was gone, and she wondered if it had burned or fallen into the flint cottage.

“Say the word,” Lord Meriweather murmured, “and we can go back to Meriweather Hall at any time.”

She looked past him. “Where is Gregory?”

“Over by the church.” He continued to keep his hand over hers on the sleeve of his dark brown greatcoat as they walked to where her brother stared into the church’s cellar.

The few men who had been gathering up debris and piling it near the edge of the cliff stopped working as they watched her and Lord Meriweather come toward the church.

“Maybe you should wait here,” he said. “I don’t know how stable the foundation is.”

She shook her head, and they walked to where her brother had not moved. His shadow dipped over the edge of the cellar, and he seemed unaware of anything or anyone else.

“Gregory?” she called.

He was silent.

“Gregory?”

When her brother gave her no answer, she glanced at Lord Meriweather. Again his mouth was taut, and furrows had dug back into his face.

He drew his arm out from under her hand and strode to her brother. “Vicar!” His voice was as sharp as the crack of a whip.

Gregory flinched, then turned to look at them. Tears filled his eyes when he saw Vera. She ran, wending her way past the gravestones in the churchyard, and flung her arms around him.

“Do you know what happened?” she asked.

“All I can figure,” her brother said, “is that another section of roof fell in and struck the wood stove. Embers must have fallen out. That set the church on fire.”

Vera shook her head. “Gregory, that can’t be what happened. We didn’t use it anymore.”

“It is the only explanation I have.” His shoulders sagged, and Vera embraced him again.

* * *

Edmund Herriott, Lord Meriweather, stepped away to let Miss Fenwick and her brother comfort each other. He spoke to the men cleaning the site and was glad to see many were his tenants. He thanked them. Was he expected to do more? He had no idea. Now that his cousins Sophia and Catherine were both married and gone, he would need to turn to Lady Meriweather to help him make proper decisions.