Bartholomew Attempts to Find his Mermaid

Today, we’re returning to my recently published novel, Uncovering Love. The last post from this book showcased Bartholomew accidentally encountering the heroine, Maida, bathing in a stream. The next day, he asks the man, Ian Nevin, who occasionally helps with his land survey for advice on identifying his “mermaid.” As happens in fairy tales, the hero is destined to take several tries and will incorrectly identify his “bride” or love interest before discovering her.

“May I ask something?”
“Sure.” The other man waited, his countenance open.
“I … I glimpsed a girl in the woods. I wonder if you might know who it is.”
“Can you describe her? Dark, fair? You said a glimpse, so I’m guessing you didn’t see much of her?”
“Dark hair.”
“Possibly one of Baylis’s daughters. Judith or Joanna. They’re both out in society, come to the local dances. Pretty, pleasant girls.”
He tilted his head and leaned closer. “I imagine that’s who it was. And the woods are private property, so no one should be walking through?”
“On paper, yes. But there are always poachers. You say dark, but under the tree branches, the lighting changes the way we see things; it might be Lenore.”
“Who’s she?”
Nevin’s eyes twinkled. He didn’t seem the sort for such a display. “Depends on who you listen to. Her brother or Mr. Baylis or, if you straight-up, talk to her.”
Bartholomew pulled back. His eyes whisked over the other man’s face and settled on Nevin’s twitching mouth.
“Her brother, James Coffin, is her guardian, but talks at length about what an unmanageable chit she is. He banished her from his household for an unnamed offense. She lives with her aunt, Mrs. Nicol, in a cottage on the far side of the woods. She isn’t a brunette, but has striking auburn hair.”
“Oh!” His loins stirred again, imagining this unwanted woman living where he worked. She fit the profile of someone who would bathe in a stream. “What do people say of her?”
“James Coffin is our local magistrate and is kind in calling her a wild child. Baylis claims she’s a harlot and keeps a public ledger. Others are kinder; Mr. Buckholt allows her to attend the monthly dances.”
“What’s a public ledger?”
“Just how sheltered are you?” The rise in Nevin’s voice and the intensity of his gaze made Bartholomew wriggle.
He stared at the ground. “I didn’t go away to school. Only did training in Edinburgh when I was twenty.” He didn’t dare mention that his mother came with him. He risked raising his head.
A grunt. “A prostitute. There’s a house down the south side of town, placed near the posting inn by the highway, yet close to the Black Horse pub.” Nevin glanced at him, and some question must have appeared on Bartholomew’s face. He clarified. “She’s not a harlot. I’ve danced with her several times at the monthly assembly. Sharp-tongued, yes. Harlot, no. But is she beautiful?” That intelligent face, with its dark grey eyes under those heavy brows, morphed into a dreamy, almost foolish expression. “Her beauty makes you gulp for air. If you attend the next assembly, Mr. Buckholt can introduce you.”
“Who’s Mr. Buckholt?” Lenore Coffin fit his fantasy better than the daughters of ugly Mr. Baylis.
“He is the assembly’s master of ceremonies and has permission to introduce men and women. He’s a widower and local estate owner.”
“I think maybe I’ll go to the next assembly dance.”

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