“I believe the Bible is true,” he eventually said. “I believe that God created the world, but exactly how He created it I cannot be certain. But I do not believe, like some do,” he said, thinking about certain professors, “that all of this amazing life came into being by chance. If you study natural history, or indeed any type of science, you cannot help but observe the patterns involved, patterns and an order that suggest a Master Designer at work, rather than the chaotic mess of happenchance. So yes, I believe the Bible can be considered authentic.”
Her brow furrowed. “Then you believe that Jesus Christ was a real person.”
“Of course.” Wait—did she mean to imply that she did not? “There is much evidence from historians of that time to prove His life and death real.”
“Such as?”
He paused. Lord, what were those names again? His reading of Hugo Grotius’s The Truth of the Christian Religion leapt to mind. “Such as the writings of Josephus, Pliny, Thallos, and Africanus.”
“Christians, no doubt.”
“Not all. Some were Jewish historians, some were Greek, some—such as Celsus and Julian—wrote against Christians. Regardless, they all believed Jesus Christ to be a real person. I am convinced that He certainly lived, and died, and I believe the Bible is true when it states He rose to life again.”
She eyed him but said nothing, her closed features giving nothing away. He was tempted to ask what her beliefs were regarding the Bible when Aidan interrupted.
“So, where precisely is this famous fossil? I don’t mind standing here while you two discuss theological matters, but I suspect your sister would prefer to be somewhere a little more sheltered.”
Remorse panged. He should be more aware of Emma’s poor condition, rather than only thinking about her lovely companion. Emma had been a trifle nauseous this morning, and the fact that she had decided to come at all was testament to her good nature rather than her good health.
“Of course. Please, let us go this way.”
He led the way past a substantial solitary rock, standing up pillar-like from the sand, glad for the low tide that made entry accessible. He glanced out to the sea, which seemed to recede even more. As laden with nooks as this stretch of coastline was, he did not see this particular section as being of prime interest to smugglers. The stretch of sand was too broad at low tide, and the location, while seeming remote, would be inaccessible during high tide.
They rounded a corner, and he gestured to a narrow stretch of banded rock. “This here is the thing I wanted to show you.” He pointed to a series of tiny arched lines.
“What is it?” Miss Hatherleigh said, inching closer.
“Mind your step. It is likely to be a little slippery.” He held his hand to Miss Hatherleigh and she grasped it, her gloved fingers warm to his touch.
Exhilaration filled his chest, a joy that made him wonder at the pride he’d feel if—no, faith said it would be when—he could one day show his loved ones his most longed-for discovery.
“I believe this to be a very large example of a cornu ammonis.”
“Really?” Aidan said, peering closer. “You are certain?”
“Quite certain,” Gideon said. “My visits to Lyme to see similar samples confirm it holds all the shape and markings.”
“It certainly looks similar to the specimen housed at the British Museum,” Aidan said. “Do you intend to extract it?”
Gideon smiled. “That is why you are here, my friend. We could hope that the ammonite might dislodge naturally—”
Miss Hatherleigh gave a sound of disbelief.
“No, really, the soil here is easily erodible and the winter storms have long been helpful in releasing new specimens to the eye. See? It is already somewhat loose on this side. I believe if we are careful, we can extract it today.”
“Well, that is remarkable.” She gently brushed the specimen, then glanced at her dirt-smudged gloves before tugging them off with a rueful smile and stuffing them in a pocket.
“Gideon, I … I do not feel so very well.” Emma’s voice held the edge of breathlessness.
“Emma? Do you wish to return? I can accompany you,” Miss Hatherleigh offered.
“Then I best attend you both,” said Gideon.
“No, no,” Emma protested. “I am slightly dizzy, that is all. I’m sure it will soon pass.”
“We shall manage well enough,” Miss Hatherleigh said, as Aidan murmured to Emma. “It would appear you and Mr. Kenmore have some work to do while we enjoy the fresh air.”
Was this her way of saying she had not enjoyed his find? He swallowed disappointment and murmured, “Very well.”
“Please do not think I have not enjoyed it,” she said quietly, laying a hand on his arm. “But I do not want your sister to feel obliged to stay for my sake when she is not feeling well. And from Mr. Kenmore’s questions, he certainly seems keen and able to help.”
Heart lighter, he acquiesced, promising they would be done shortly.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CAROLINE EXHALED. “WELL, that was certainly an experience.”
“Forgive me,” said Emma, still looking a little pale. “I don’t know what came over me.”
“It is no great matter. I must confess that standing at the base of such a great cliff face is a little overwhelming. But this”—she turned to look at the sea—“this is quite refreshing, is it not?”
She drew in a deep draft of fresh air, which restored balance within. Had she really just touched a young man, clasping his arm as she might her sister? Was she so lost to propriety that such things now seemed normal? For it had seemed normal, and something done more from a heart soft towards him, than from any conscious thought.
A heart soft towards him.
Caroline placed cool hands on hot cheeks. What on earth was happening to her?
She peeked at her companion. Poor Emma still looked a little pale so she drew her forward to a smooth rock. “Here, come sit down. I’m sure you will feel better soon.”
Emma gave a twisted smile but obeyed, looking quietly out to the sea. Behind them came the sound of implements striking stones, a steady patter that contrasted with the screech of gulls and slower surge and wane of sea. They sat quietly for some time until the gentle chipping sound ceased.
Caroline glanced over her shoulder to where she could hear the men talking. “They are like little children over there, excited about pretty baubles.”
“Gideon has always had a strong interest in natural history,” said Emma.
“It is something I have never really thought about,” Caroline admitted. “But I can certainly see its fascination.”
“My brother would be pleased to hear you say so,” said Emma, a smile glinting in her eyes.
Caroline blushed and looked away. She really shouldn’t give rise to speculation, but such experiences had never crossed her path before, and she hadn’t lied: she did find these matters interesting. But whether that was enough upon which to base closer acquaintanceship was quite another thing.
The scent of fish wrinkled Caroline’s nose. She was about to make a comment about the unpleasant aroma when Emma made a stifled sound. Caroline turned to see her hold a hand to her mouth. “Oh! You poor thing.” She wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “Mr. Kirby!”
“Please, it is nothing,” Emma said, but she did not shrug off Caroline’s supporting arm.
“Emma? What is it?” Mr. Kirby gave Mr. Kenmore the large stone he held then hurried to her side. He glanced at Caroline but she shook her head.
“It is nothing,” repeated Emma. “I merely feel a trifle ill.”
“Then we best return you to the gig. Are you well enough to walk?”
She rose. Caroline dropped her arm but offered her hand as Emma moved unsteadily from the rock where she had perched.
“Excuse me.” Mr. Kirby swept Emma up and carried her along the path, leaving Mr. Kenmore to bear the large stone while Caroline collected the scattered belongings and followed in the
ir wake.
The quiet procession was punctuated by Mr. Kenmore’s occasional grunts of exertion.
“That certainly looks heavy,” Caroline offered, motioning to the stone.
“To be sure,” Mr. Kenmore said, staggering slightly. “We can more carefully extract the ammonite once at the cottage, but I think it will be nearly as large as I’ve ever seen.”
“That is good, is it not?”
“Aye, it is.”
She heard a mumbled curse and looked at him.
He flushed. “Forgive me, but I cannot stand to see Emma unwell.”
Concern for her friend edged her heart. “I do hope she will feel better soon.”
There came a murmur of agreement, then, “How that—” another profanity “—came to hurt her so.”
“Surely you don’t mean Mr. Kirby?”
He chuckled, albeit a little grimly. “Course not. Gideon’s as upright a fellow as ever you’d meet. No, that cur who tricked her into marrying him.”
She felt her eyes widen, but she wouldn’t ask. She wouldn’t—
“Who is he?”
He glanced at her, but his lowered brows and flashing eyes held an expression so forbidding that she hastily begged his forgiveness for such impertinence, and hurried ahead. Clearly there was some mystery here.
By the time she reached the carriage Emma was seated in the back, her eyes closed, her expression paler than the Carrera marble statues gracing Aynsley’s Long Gallery. Mr. Kirby shot Caroline an apologetic look from where he was preparing the horses for their departure.
“Forgive me, Miss Hatherleigh, but I think it for the best if Emma is returned home as quickly as possible. She is susceptible to colds and I—”
“Of course she should return home. I can stay with her if you think that would help.”
“Thank you, but she will have servants who know her condition and can assist.”
“Of course,” she said, trying not to take offense at how her offer to help had been so summarily dismissed.
Mr. Kenmore arrived, placed his burden in the rear of the gig, then offered Caroline his hand to ascend. She kept her spine ramrod straight as they returned, but then noted poor Emma’s pallor and glistening brow, and reached to gently squeeze her hand.
Soon they had arrived at the small cottage, and Emma was being assisted to exit, Mr. Kirby barking orders at his friend to take Miss Hatherleigh home.
Within seconds the brother and sister had entered the building, leaving Caroline to look at Mr. Kenmore uncertainly.
“Forgive him. He is right to consider Emma’s health. She has always been delicate, and today she tried to do more than she should,” he said, almost angrily.
“If I had known I would never have insisted on going today.”
“No, no, it is not your doing. She is stubborn, like her brother.” He snapped the reins. “Forgive me, I’m not making much sense, am I?”
“No.”
He chuckled, his expression clearing. “It may come as a surprise to you, Miss Hatherleigh, but I have long considered myself like another brother to her.”
“It comes as a surprise you consider yourself as a brother.”
Mr. Kenmore looked sharply at her, then gave a bitter-sounding laugh. “I suppose I am fool enough to think my affections unobserved.”
“If it’s any comfort, I believe she is unaware.”
“I don’t know if that is comfort or not.”
“Forgive my impertinence, but how could it be any comfort for her to know such a thing? Is she not married?”
He jerked a nod.
“Then—again, forgive me—how could you ever hope to find happiness with her?”
A sigh sounded, seemingly wrenched from his innermost being. “It be a long road that has no turning.”
“Surely society would take a very dim view on such things.”
“I find I do not care. Emma has long enchanted me, ever since I knew her as a little girl. It’s like her smile has chained my soul forever.”
Caroline’s heart throbbed in sympathy. Oh, to have someone wax so poetically over her …
“I first met Emma when I returned with Gideon to his home during the Long Vacation. Emma’s grand smile, her patient spirit, was like balm, soothing my soul. I felt as though I had met an angel. It was then I determined that I would marry her one day, and after I completed my studies I returned and offered my hand, only to be told by her father that he would never countenance an Irish ingrate.”
Her breath caught. She had heard her own father make similar derogatory comments, and had never minded them overly. But to hear such discriminatory words from this perspective …
“I am sorry.”
“I don’t want your pity, lass. I just cannot stand to have you think me dishonorable.”
“I never thought that!”
“No?” He glanced at her quickly. “Well, regardless of what others think, I will wait forever for her—for that maggoty scoundrel to die and finally free her from the noose of cursed matrimony.”
She stared at him. What must it be like to have a man admit he was enchanted by her? To have someone willing to wait for her? To seem almost willing to commit violence for her? The thought was shocking—and also a little thrilling.
“May … may I ask what happened?”
He shook his head, and for a moment she thought him affronted and would not answer. Then he sighed. “It was a bad business. Their father was ill, and I like to think that is why he would not entertain my suit. He said something about not wanting Emma taken off to the wilds of west Ireland.” He snorted. “Like we don’t have doctors over there.”
The bitterness in his voice wrenched her heart. Here was passion, but passion tortured by propriety’s strictures.
“Next I knew she had been married off to the most likely candidate, leaving my poor heart torn in pieces. These past two years have been torture. I tried to forget. I traveled, I represented my father’s interests at home and abroad, but I could never forget her. Or that scoundrel who married her.” His lips pressed together as if to clamp down further words.
Sympathy wrenched. The poor man. To have loved and lost, and yet never given up. “Do … do you think she is safe?”
“I pray so,” he said. “If ever I see that monster—Forgive me, Miss Hatherleigh. I have a tendency to let my tongue run away with me.”
“If it’s any comfort, I think you would have made her very happy,” she said, thinking of how often he made Emma smile. “I think you still do.”
“Well, there is that, I suppose.” He released an audible breath. “She does not have an easy road ahead of her, that is for sure and for certain, but I will do what I can to make her smile, and bring some gladness to her heart, for as long as I breathe.”
Her eyes pricked, and she swallowed several times to clear her throat. How wonderful, how inspiring, to see such affection in action. Surely this behavior displayed love more than fancy verses or flowers. She sighed. Would she ever be so fortunate as to be loved like that?
THREE DAYS LATER Caroline was disappointed yet unsurprised to see neither the Kirbys nor their friend at services. The minister’s prayer for the sick was one echoed sincerely in her heart for Miss Kirby, prayers not being something she was overly familiar with. Still the confusion raged. Mr. Kirby seemed so certain that Jesus Christ was real, that the things in the Bible occurred, but her legacy of unbelief made such simple trust so hard. How was talking to an invisible someone any good, save as a kind of panacea to the soul? Surely it was the hope that someone might be listening that was of greater good, not so much the thought that an invisible someone was actually answering prayer?
Her thoughts tracked back to that unsettling discussion about the Bible, and Mr. Kirby’s firm belief in a Creator. She had never really given it much thought. It did seem foolish to believe the world had just magically formed into such order without someone or something being responsible, without a guiding hand, but she never thought that some
one might be actively interested in their lives today. She had rather supposed He must have made the world then left them to it. Her brow furrowed. But surely that presupposed belief in a God after all?
“Caroline, people are waiting for you to leave,” her grandmother hissed, forcing Caroline to her feet, and her expression to adopt something more appropriate for church. She swallowed a smile. Heaven forbid anyone think she was actually thinking about whether the God they worshipped in such a place actually existed or not.
“Ah, Miss Hatherleigh,” the minister intoned, taking her hand. “It was good to see you engrossed in the sermon today.”
Heat swept her cheeks. It hadn’t been his message that engrossed her. “I wonder, Reverend Holmes, what evidence you can give for the validity of the Bible.”
“Caroline!” her grandmother exclaimed.
Reverend Holmes’s look of startlement gave way to one of condescension. “I am sure those subjects are not what a young lady should be thinking on.”
“Indeed they are not,” snapped Grandmama before dragging her away. “What do you mean by asking such questions? And to a minister no less?”
“Who better to ask that question of? Surely he should have a ready answer.”
“Well, yes, but to ask such a thing in a public place, where anyone might hear you. Why, one would think you might be one of these bluestockings one reads about, and I cannot think your mother would countenance that.”
No. Mama certainly would not wish for her eldest daughter to be spending more time wondering about books and religion than about finding a husband.
“I am sorry if I have embarrassed you, but I have found myself thinking about things I have never considered before.”
“Well, it is not seemly and must stop.”
She bit back her reply. Perhaps she would not ask, but would do further investigation on her own. It was just a shame the people she thought might best be able to answer her question had not been in church today.
God, where are You?
Gideon gazed out across the garden to where the sea gleamed beyond. But today the vista held no comfort, held no assurance. Yesterday’s visit from the doctor had put paid to that.
A Hero for Miss Hatherleigh Page 12