A Hero for Christmas. Jo Ann Brown

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      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.

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