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Authors: Jo Ann Brown
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burly footmen to carry him from his bedchamber through the house. Being toted about like a helpless fool would be humiliating. Perhaps he had been foolish to give chase after the child instead of allowing Miss Oliver to retrieve him, but Arthur would not hesitate to do the same again.
You have the heart of a hero.
Cranny’s words echoed in his memory.
Always ready to go to someone’s rescue, no matter the cost.
At the time, Arthur had taken the words as a compliment. Now he was less certain his friend had intended them that way. Of course, Arthur would never be the great man that his friend was, giving his life in service to his country.
His hands fisted on the arms of his chair. His attempts to find out the truth about Cranny’s murder had led him to dead ends. The people present at his friend’s death had gone to earth and taken the truth with them.
“How are you getting along with the children?” Carrie’s voice intruded on his thoughts.
He pushed them aside gratefully. Until he had a new lead, losing himself in his frustration was a useless exercise. He pasted a smile on and faced her. “I seem to have made a friend of young Bertie.”
“I am glad to hear that.” She laughed. “They will be arriving soon, I am sure.”
“Who?”
“The children.” She dimpled as she laughed again. “Oh, Arthur, you are transparent at times. You have been glancing at the door every few seconds. Each time you do and no one is there, your disappointment is all over your face.”
Had he been eyeing the door that frequently? He had not been aware of that, though he was eager to see the children again.
And Miss Oliver.
He ignored that unsettling thought as he had others. It would be easier if the mention of her name, even in his mind, did not bring forth the image of her gentle smile and her bright green eyes. Though she kept her blond hair pulled back, the wisps about her face looked like spun sugar, soft and teasing his fingers to brush them aside.
“You seem to have taken to the children,” Carrie said, serious once again, “with an alacrity I did not expect. Perhaps I was mistaken in thinking you had no real motivation for getting to know them. I assumed, after she married, your affection for Gwendolyn had cooled.”
“I have always considered her a dear friend.”
“I do hope you did not present your proposal to her in that letter you sent off to her this morning.”
He wagged a finger at his sister. “I listened to
all
your advice, Carrie.”
“Good, because I would not wish you to make a muddle of this before it even begins.”
He chuckled, and he saw her surprise. Had she thought he would be so burdened with pain he would be dreary company? No, he realized with astonishment. His sister did not expect to hear merriment coming from him because he had laughed seldom since the news of Cranny’s death reached Porthlowen.
As the months passed, his plans to avenge his friend consumed him. He tried to heed his brother’s counsel to accept the words in Romans 12:19. Raymond had even written out the passage on a page Arthur had tossed atop his desk:
Dearly beloved, avenge not yourselves, but rather give place unto wrath: for it is written, Vengeance is mine; I will repay, sayeth the Lord.
It was impossible to forget Gwendolyn’s face lined with pain and sorrow as she had stood by Cranny’s grave. If there was any way Arthur could help God in this matter, he must.
Footsteps sounded inside the house, and he sat straighter. He watched the door, wondering which youngster would run out first.
Two white-haired women emerged. The Winwood twins lived in a simple cottage close to the harbor. They were the eldest residents of Porthlowen, but as spry as people half their age. Neither had ever married, because they had cared for their parents until the twins were deemed long past marriageable age. Whether that determination was made by the bachelors and widowers of Porthlowen, or the Winwoods had made that
You have the heart of a hero.
Cranny’s words echoed in his memory.
Always ready to go to someone’s rescue, no matter the cost.
At the time, Arthur had taken the words as a compliment. Now he was less certain his friend had intended them that way. Of course, Arthur would never be the great man that his friend was, giving his life in service to his country.
His hands fisted on the arms of his chair. His attempts to find out the truth about Cranny’s murder had led him to dead ends. The people present at his friend’s death had gone to earth and taken the truth with them.
“How are you getting along with the children?” Carrie’s voice intruded on his thoughts.
He pushed them aside gratefully. Until he had a new lead, losing himself in his frustration was a useless exercise. He pasted a smile on and faced her. “I seem to have made a friend of young Bertie.”
“I am glad to hear that.” She laughed. “They will be arriving soon, I am sure.”
“Who?”
“The children.” She dimpled as she laughed again. “Oh, Arthur, you are transparent at times. You have been glancing at the door every few seconds. Each time you do and no one is there, your disappointment is all over your face.”
Had he been eyeing the door that frequently? He had not been aware of that, though he was eager to see the children again.
And Miss Oliver.
He ignored that unsettling thought as he had others. It would be easier if the mention of her name, even in his mind, did not bring forth the image of her gentle smile and her bright green eyes. Though she kept her blond hair pulled back, the wisps about her face looked like spun sugar, soft and teasing his fingers to brush them aside.
“You seem to have taken to the children,” Carrie said, serious once again, “with an alacrity I did not expect. Perhaps I was mistaken in thinking you had no real motivation for getting to know them. I assumed, after she married, your affection for Gwendolyn had cooled.”
“I have always considered her a dear friend.”
“I do hope you did not present your proposal to her in that letter you sent off to her this morning.”
He wagged a finger at his sister. “I listened to
all
your advice, Carrie.”
“Good, because I would not wish you to make a muddle of this before it even begins.”
He chuckled, and he saw her surprise. Had she thought he would be so burdened with pain he would be dreary company? No, he realized with astonishment. His sister did not expect to hear merriment coming from him because he had laughed seldom since the news of Cranny’s death reached Porthlowen.
As the months passed, his plans to avenge his friend consumed him. He tried to heed his brother’s counsel to accept the words in Romans 12:19. Raymond had even written out the passage on a page Arthur had tossed atop his desk:
Dearly beloved, avenge not yourselves, but rather give place unto wrath: for it is written, Vengeance is mine; I will repay, sayeth the Lord.
It was impossible to forget Gwendolyn’s face lined with pain and sorrow as she had stood by Cranny’s grave. If there was any way Arthur could help God in this matter, he must.
Footsteps sounded inside the house, and he sat straighter. He watched the door, wondering which youngster would run out first.
Two white-haired women emerged. The Winwood twins lived in a simple cottage close to the harbor. They were the eldest residents of Porthlowen, but as spry as people half their age. Neither had ever married, because they had cared for their parents until the twins were deemed long past marriageable age. Whether that determination was made by the bachelors and widowers of Porthlowen, or the Winwoods had made that
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