Page 22 of A Bride for the Baron

Something that resembled dread flickered through Lord Meriweather’s eyes. Ogden looked away. She knew he did not want the baron to see the sympathy he felt for a lord who could not make decisions.

She made one herself and asked, “Where is Lord Meriweather needed?”

The butler’s eyes widened at her inappropriate question, but when the baron motioned for him to answer, Ogden said, “In the stables, my lord. The matter of repairs to the smaller carriage.”

“May I come with you?” Vera asked. “I don’t think I have seen the smaller carriage.”

“If you wish,” Lord Meriweather said and sent for their coats.

As soon as the outer wraps arrived, Lord Meriweather assisted her with hers. His hands lingered for only the length of a single heartbeat on her shoulders, but that sweet sensation, stronger each time he touched her, swept over her again. She tied her simple straw bonnet under her chin as he pulled on his own coat.

The ever-present wind off the sea sliced through Vera’s dark blue wool spencer before they had taken more than a few steps outside. She hurried with Lord Meriweather to the stables. As they stepped inside, the thick scent of dried hay and animals and men who lived too closely in a small space filled every breath.

A small, wiry man appeared out of the dusty shadows and put his fingers to his forelock. “Good morning, m’lord,” he said in a thick Yorkshire accent.

“Good morning, Griffin,” Lord Meriweather replied. “Do you know Miss Fenwick?”

“Aye.” He bobbed his head toward her. “She and the vicar came to pray when my mother was sickly.”

“How is Mrs. Griffin?” Vera asked.

“Much better, Miss Fenwick. She had hoped to come to church for the Easter services.” His thin face lengthened. “Now there is no church for her to come to.”

“There will be,” she reassured him. “Maybe not this year, but certainly by next.” She glanced at the baron. “Lord Meriweather has promised that.”

“Aye, ’tis good. M’lord, if you will come with me...” The coachman motioned for them to follow him.

A great black bulk transformed into a carriage that was about half the size of the one Vera had ridden in on the way back from Norwich. The odor of fresh lacquer wafted from it.

“’Tis all finished, m’lord,” Griffin said, “save for the upholstery inside. What do you want for it?”

Lord Meriweather said in a clipped tone, “I told you to put whatever was readily available.”

“That is just it, m’lord. We’ve got enough red velvet and enough black to cover the seats.”

Vera held her breath when the baron drew in a deep one as if he were about to face the French army again. To him, his inability to make a decision was an enemy even more brutal than Napoleon’s troops.

“If I may make a suggestion,” she said with a smile, “go with the red. It will show dirt from the roads and sand from the shore far less than the black would.”

“Trust a woman to know such things.” Lord Meriweather chuckled, but she heard relief in the sound. “Griffin, make it the red.”

“Aye, m’lord.” He waved his hands at the stablemen. “Go on, the lot of you, and get to your work.” He nodded toward the baron again. “It should take only a few days to finish the work, m’lord.”

“Excellent.” Lord Meriweather walked toward the stable door. He paused at the line where the shadows surrendered to the sunshine. He took her hand and bowed over it. “Thank you,” he said so softly she almost missed it as her heartbeat thundered within her. He released her hand and walked away.

She rested her shoulder against the stable door and cradled the hand he had held in her other one. “You are welcome.”

* * *

Edmund stared at the blank piece of paper in front of him. No doubt, by now four days after the vicar had left to call on the bishop, Miss Fenwick had several pages filled with ideas for the new church. He had nothing. For once, he was frozen not because he could not make up his mind what to do, but because he simply needed to figure out where to start.

When he had worked on houses in London, there had always been a customer with definite ideas. He would talk with that customer and then develop a plan out of that conversation. He needed to speak with Mr. Fenwick. To come up with a list of essentials for a church without the pastor sharing his needs and expectations felt like an impossible task.

Pushing himself to his feet, he strode to the book room window and gazed out at the sea. Would he ever tire of watching the waves tease the shore? He could not imagine a time, but he wished he was able to look at the sea without thinking of the smugglers.

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