O Night Divine A Holiday Collection of Spirited Christmas Tales - Kathryn Le Veque Page 0,134

wood there. Parker would have thought he’d be more concerned about the bridge.

“Must make sure all is well,” his uncle said when he caught sight of him.

“And the bridge?” Parker asked, still unaccountably bothered about the voice in the fog. “Everything set?”

“Nothing to worry about there, dear boy. I’ve built bridges before, you know.”

“But this one is the longest, and people say the wind coming up the Bristol Channel…”

Judson scowled. “And do these people have experience in the design and construction of bridges?”

Parker felt like a naughty schoolboy. “Well, no.”

Judson nodded to the passenger train waiting in the small station a hundred yards away, the engine already hissing and belching steam as if impatient to be underway. “The engineers have gone over every inch of the locomotive with a fine-tooth comb.”

His uncle had made sure all was in order. Parker’s sense of impending disaster was clearly unfounded, but there was still the matter of the grandstand. “I’m afraid I won’t be able to sit with the dignitaries today, Uncle. I’m sorry but something has come up at the station.”

“No matter,” Judson replied.

“You’ve a lot on your mind,” Parker replied, not sure whether to be relieved or slighted. “I’m sure all will go well.”

“Of course it will,” his uncle replied as he turned away to speak to a workman.

Bristling at the dismissal, yet feeling guilty at the lie he’d told, Parker made his way down the steps from the grandstand. He noticed a well-dressed man loitering in the roadway, looking up at the wooden structure. “You’re early if you plan to attend the opening,” he said by way of a polite greeting when the fellow tipped his top hat.

“The early bird catches the worm, don’t you know?” the man replied in an accent Parker recognized instantly.

“Ireland?” he asked.

The man laughed heartily. “New York, though my roots are in Derry.”

“You’re a long way from home,” Parker replied. “Here to see the opening?”

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world, boyo.”

Another tip of the hat and the fellow walked on, leaving Parker with a distinctly uneasy feeling in his gut that had little to do with the man’s poor choice of cologne that smelled like rotten apples. He considered himself a good judge of character, and something malicious lurked in the American’s eyes—but then most Yanks he’d met tended to lord it over Englishmen. “Boyo, indeed. Patronizing sod.”

As a man of Irish descent, he’d come across more than one American who assumed every Paddy living in England burned to sacrifice himself on the altar of Home Rule for Ireland. Parker had heard enough of that from his drunken father.

He increased his pace, worried he might be too late to catch the ferry, but the appearance of a fog bank stopped him in his tracks. Gooseflesh marched up his spine. Perhaps the agonizing months spent in the hospital after he’d been stabbed had affected his mind. He was sure of it when a voice whispered close to his ear, “Rotten to the core.”

Chapter Nine

The Ferry

Samantha gripped the white railing on the deck of her father’s ferryboat, scanning the long line of people waiting to board.

Grace linked arms with her. “Don’t worry. He’ll come.”

“Who?” she asked, feeling the heat rise in her face despite the brisk wind.

“You know very well who,” her sister retorted. “Papa was right. He told me this is the largest number of passengers he’s had for a long while.”

“Let’s hope it continues,” Samantha said, losing hope as the end of the queue came in sight.

“There he is,” Grace squealed, bouncing up and down, until, “Oh.”

Samantha followed her sister’s gaze. Sergeant Cullen was limping along the docks, relying heavily on a cane.

A myriad of emotions swamped Samantha. Despite his limp, he walked erect, his head held high. A proud man, easily the most striking gentleman she’d met in a long while. She’d misjudged him, deemed him rude because he’d refused to dance and left without saying goodnight. Clearly, he hadn’t wanted them to see his disability. Her heart went out to him. He’d overcome his pride and joined them today. She’d sensed an attraction between them at the ball, and hoped he’d come because he wanted to see her again.

His jaw clenched as he paid the steward for his ticket and saw her watching him. She was so glad to see him, she beamed a smile, elated when he returned the smile, transforming his worried features into the face of Michelangelo’s David.

The boat rose and fell in the choppy waters of the small