would he think if she told him that she had a single reason to go to London? She planned to visit the new exhibit at the British Museum of the sculptured panels that once had graced the Parthenon in Athens. The Elgin Marbles, as they were commonly called. She was going to see them, not just for herself, but for Roland who never had the chance.
Dear Roland, the only man who ever understood her love for art and did not consider it worthless. The only man whom she had ever trusted with her heart. She blinked back tears. The two years since his death in battle had not lessened how much she missed Roland.
Instead of answering Mr. Bradby, she ruffled the pup’s fur.
His tail wagged so hard it almost became invisible as he looked up at Cat with adoration.
“What do you say, pup,” she asked, “if I take you to the kitchen and see what scraps Mrs. Porter has? You can chew on a bone by the fire tonight.”
Mr. Bradby shook his head. “You don’t need to impose on your cook. He can sleep in the stables with the horses. After all, he is about the same size.”
“He may be big, but he is a puppy. It will be very cold outside tonight, and he will be far more comfortable by the kitchen hearth.” She smiled at him. “Don’t try to change my mind on this.”
He grinned back. “Thanks for the warning, Miss Catherine, but to own the truth, I suspect that your cook will soon be begging you to send him to the stables.”
“Why?
“He snores. Loudly.”
Catherine laughed as they and the pup walked along the corridor toward the kitchen stairs. It was good to have Mr. Bradby’s sense of humor back under their roof. She was sure to need it in the coming days.
* * *
Why was he here?
As Jonathan Bradby strode toward the grand staircase at the front of Meriweather Hall, he reminded himself that he could have ignored the request from Edmund Herriott. He could have remained in his comfortable home in Norwich, where he could admire the cathedral’s spire from his office window. Instead, he had driven north along the coast to Meriweather Hall. The estate had been inherited by Herriott—no, he needed to think of him as Meriweather now that he had claimed his title—upon the death of his distant cousin...Miss Catherine’s father.
Jonathan had, if he were honest with himself, looked forward to seeing Miss Catherine again. When he had visited the baronial estate two months ago, she had always laughed at his jests rather than looking at him with pity, as others did, when he acted silly.
Acted...
He ground his teeth as his jaw worked. Was he becoming just like the rest of his family? Their lives were one continuous illusion. His siblings played roles, changing like chameleons to attract an admirer with both title and wealth, as they took advantage of the social whirl. Creating such a persona was a skill they had learned from an early age, when their parents had chosen to live separate lives but maintain the image of the perfect family.
Now he had become like them, pretending that a lie was the truth. Everyone believed he was a hero who had saved his best friend’s life on the battlefield. If he had spoken up the first time someone had lauded him for saving Northbridge, he would not have to be living now with the abhorrent lie. But he had not admitted that he had stumbled and slammed into the French soldier. It had been enough to keep the Frenchman’s sword from slicing off Northbridge’s head, leaving his friend only with a scar where the blade had glanced off his cheek.
But that did not make Jonathan a hero. It made him a clumsy oaf, as his father had called him so often, when Jonathan was struggling to get used to growth spurts that had him sprouting up two or more inches seemingly overnight.
He should have told the truth from the beginning. Now it was too late, and he had become the very thing he despised. An illusion that everyone accepted as the truth. He had no idea what his friends would think of him, if they discovered the truth now, but he also did not know how much longer he could live what both he and God knew was a lie. He often wondered if God had let him leave the battlefield alive in order to right the mistake he had made. If so, he was letting God down a second time.
“Bother!” came Miss Catherine’s voice through an open doorway just in front of him. “You didn’t do that, did you? I cannot believe this!”
Jonathan waited to hear a reply, but there was none. Curiosity drew him to the door that was flanked by suits of armor. He looked in to see a fire dancing on the white marble hearth. Carved with vines and birds and lush grapes, it was too ornate for his taste. Books covered every shelf in the bookcases that lined the other walls, and more were piled on the floor and on the overstuffed chairs.
Cat stood by a rosewood desk covered with stacks of papers, her fists clenched on one pile. Cat. He had not thought of Catherine’s childhood nickname since he had left Meriweather Hall, but it suited her. She was small, at least a foot shorter than his six-foot-four height, and her black hair was as sleek as a cat’s fur. Instead of green eyes, she had earth-brown ones. Yet they sparked like a cat’s when her emotions were high, as they were now.
“Is everything all right?” he asked from the doorway.
She whirled, her eyes wide.
“I didn’t mean to startle you,” he said.
“I was lost in thought.” Her voice was filled with frustration. “I was doing some work for the Christmas Eve ball.”
He stepped into the room. “And it sounds as if there is a problem.”
“It would appear that Cousin Edmund forgot that he had asked me to send out invitations to the wedding and the assembly. I spent hours on them. If I had not had Vera’s help, I doubt I could have gotten them done on time.”
He nodded, recalling that Vera Fenwick, the vicar’s sister, was Cat’s bosom-bow. “I see.”
“No, you don’t.” She pushed away from the desk and leaned her fists on the back of one of the chairs. “I am receiving replies from invitations that I did not send, people telling me that they are delighted to attend. All I can figure is that, after asking me to handle the invitations, Cousin Edmund went ahead and invited more people without telling me.”
Jonathan tried to quell the smile that tickled his lips.
She must have noticed his efforts because she grimaced. “I know it sounds petty, but I had everything planned out. And now...”
“Now you have to make a change in plans.”
“Yes, and that is far less simple than it sounds.”
“Poor Meriweather,” he said. “He cannot make up his mind whom to invite, so he invited everyone.”
Cat’s shoulders eased from their rigid line. “I didn’t think of it that way. Oh, dear! What a muddle this has become! To say something to him would be cruel, so I will endeavor to make the adjustments without bothering him.” She sighed. “I hope he will not regret avoiding that decision when the rest of our guests start to arrive, and we don’t have enough room for everyone.” She glanced toward the window. “Although if it keeps snowing like this, I wonder who will come.”
“You sound hopeful.”
Catherine
