not want to do anything to upset Mama more. And when she sets her mind on something, Cat will not have it changed.”
“Cat?” asked Mr. Bradby as he joined them at the bottom of the stairs. “Am I to believe that fair Catherine has such a mundane nickname?” He chuckled. “I daresay it is fitting, for she is as cute as a kitten.”
Sophia held up her hands as alarm surged through her. “Please do not repeat that name in her hearing. She asked us not to use it any longer, but occasionally I forget.”
Charles aimed a furious glare at his friend. Why was Bradby making a jest now when Sophia was so upset that even his friend could not fail to see? Draping an arm around Bradby’s shoulders, he said, “My good friend John-a-Nokes, ” he said, emphasizing the name that Bradby despised, “will honor your request, I am sure.”
Bradby muttered something under his breath that Charles did not ask him to repeat, because he suspected it would not be fit for Sophia’s ears. As his friend went out the door, he sighed. The morning was bright and sunny; yet everyone was in a dark mood.
“Do not worry,” Charles said. “Bradby is a decent man in spite of his hoaxing. If he forgets, Herriott and I will remind him of a gentleman’s responsibility to grant a lady her wish.”
“Thank you.” She smiled weakly at him. “I hope it does not come to that.”
“I doubt it will.” He motioned for her to precede him out the door and toward the carriage that waited for them.
She did not move. “What did you call Mr. Bradby?”
“It is a play on Jonathan, his given name.” He set his hat in place as they stepped outside. “John-a-Nokes simply means anyone. He got the moniker when he always was the last one out of bed each morning and seldom made roll call on time. Your cousin actually picked it.”
Sophia chuckled as she lifted an excited Michael into the carriage as Herriott greeted Charles. Bradby had the decency to look chagrined. Charles watched while Herriott handed Sophia into the carriage, and he wished his hand was beneath hers. Those slender fingers emphasized her words when she spoke and were loving when she offered her hand to Gemma or Michael. He was startled to realize he envied both his friend and his children.
He stepped forward to help Gemma, but she scampered into the carriage, sat next to Sophia, and began chattering nonstop. He had been snubbed by his own daughter. She glanced at him as he closed the carriage door. Her smile was cool and victorious.
Who had taught Gemma such tricks? Her mother or her grandmother or both? He should have sold his commission and returned as soon as he had received word of Lydia’s death. Maybe he should never have left in the first place. He had not expected one casualty of war would be his daughter’s love and respect.
* * *
Charles drew in his horse in front of the stone church with its thick, square tower. It sat at the very edge of the Meriweather lands. It was not as old as the manor house, but, according to Herriott, there had been a church on that spot for centuries. The gravestones in the churchyard tilted away from the sea winds as did the single tree in the lee of the structure.
He dismounted and took Michael’s hand as soon as his son bounced out of the carriage. A single glance at the coachee was enough to remind the little boy that he must behave if he wished to ride on the box to Meriweather Hall.
They entered the porch, and Charles kept the church’s door open for the others. The interior of the building was simple with two rows of stone columns on either side of the pews that were surrounded by wood panels that stood almost four feet tall. The narrow aisles along the sides and between the pews were littered with memorial stones. Several had blank indentations where brasses once had been set.
Even though the sides of the pews were so tall that they eclipsed several adult parishioners, Charles sensed every eye focused on their odd parade. Except
“Cat?” asked Mr. Bradby as he joined them at the bottom of the stairs. “Am I to believe that fair Catherine has such a mundane nickname?” He chuckled. “I daresay it is fitting, for she is as cute as a kitten.”
Sophia held up her hands as alarm surged through her. “Please do not repeat that name in her hearing. She asked us not to use it any longer, but occasionally I forget.”
Charles aimed a furious glare at his friend. Why was Bradby making a jest now when Sophia was so upset that even his friend could not fail to see? Draping an arm around Bradby’s shoulders, he said, “My good friend John-a-Nokes, ” he said, emphasizing the name that Bradby despised, “will honor your request, I am sure.”
Bradby muttered something under his breath that Charles did not ask him to repeat, because he suspected it would not be fit for Sophia’s ears. As his friend went out the door, he sighed. The morning was bright and sunny; yet everyone was in a dark mood.
“Do not worry,” Charles said. “Bradby is a decent man in spite of his hoaxing. If he forgets, Herriott and I will remind him of a gentleman’s responsibility to grant a lady her wish.”
“Thank you.” She smiled weakly at him. “I hope it does not come to that.”
“I doubt it will.” He motioned for her to precede him out the door and toward the carriage that waited for them.
She did not move. “What did you call Mr. Bradby?”
“It is a play on Jonathan, his given name.” He set his hat in place as they stepped outside. “John-a-Nokes simply means anyone. He got the moniker when he always was the last one out of bed each morning and seldom made roll call on time. Your cousin actually picked it.”
Sophia chuckled as she lifted an excited Michael into the carriage as Herriott greeted Charles. Bradby had the decency to look chagrined. Charles watched while Herriott handed Sophia into the carriage, and he wished his hand was beneath hers. Those slender fingers emphasized her words when she spoke and were loving when she offered her hand to Gemma or Michael. He was startled to realize he envied both his friend and his children.
He stepped forward to help Gemma, but she scampered into the carriage, sat next to Sophia, and began chattering nonstop. He had been snubbed by his own daughter. She glanced at him as he closed the carriage door. Her smile was cool and victorious.
Who had taught Gemma such tricks? Her mother or her grandmother or both? He should have sold his commission and returned as soon as he had received word of Lydia’s death. Maybe he should never have left in the first place. He had not expected one casualty of war would be his daughter’s love and respect.
* * *
Charles drew in his horse in front of the stone church with its thick, square tower. It sat at the very edge of the Meriweather lands. It was not as old as the manor house, but, according to Herriott, there had been a church on that spot for centuries. The gravestones in the churchyard tilted away from the sea winds as did the single tree in the lee of the structure.
He dismounted and took Michael’s hand as soon as his son bounced out of the carriage. A single glance at the coachee was enough to remind the little boy that he must behave if he wished to ride on the box to Meriweather Hall.
They entered the porch, and Charles kept the church’s door open for the others. The interior of the building was simple with two rows of stone columns on either side of the pews that were surrounded by wood panels that stood almost four feet tall. The narrow aisles along the sides and between the pews were littered with memorial stones. Several had blank indentations where brasses once had been set.
Even though the sides of the pews were so tall that they eclipsed several adult parishioners, Charles sensed every eye focused on their odd parade. Except
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