Page 1 of A Merry Christmas
CHAPTER 1
Joshua Fielding had always loved Christmas-tide. Even during those long years on campaign against Napoleon, when days were counted not by the calendar but by the movements of the army and the supply of powder, the weeks of Advent had pressed upon him with a peculiar ache. In December he would think of the glow of candlelight in frosted windows, of the scent of plum pudding steaming in his mother’s kitchen, of the sound of his father’s laugh as he attempted to sing the bass line of a carol. Other soldiers pined for sweethearts left behind. Joshua pined for the merry chaos of his own family.
His family always celebrated in a boisterous fashion that would, in all likelihood, appal his aristocratic colleagues. Yet he loved it. His father had built a shipping empire and operated out of both Liverpool and London, but their country estate was nestled somewhat in between, in the idyllic setting of the Cotswold countryside.
The elder Mr. Fielding’s partner, Mr. Roxton, had grown equally prosperous, and the two families had long since entwined their Christmas celebrations into one annual carnival of noise and conviviality. That mingling of households was as much a fixture of the season as holly in the hall or the great yule-log laid upon the hearth.
It had been five years since Joshua had been home for a family Christmas…five years in which he had learned how quickly a man’s innocence could be traded for the smell of powder and the sight of blood. The boy who had left in new regimentals had returned a captain, older in countenance than in years, and carrying a silence in his thoughts that he could not yet name.
As he approached the village, he halted his gelding to appreciate the story-book view: thatched cottages in a row, with their honeyed limestone, the smell of wood burning, and the smoke escaping the chimneys. The leaves were long gone, but it did not distract from the picturesque scene as frost glistened off the branches from the setting sun’s last rays.
He urged Brutus forward. It was quite cold and the air took on the smell just before snow fell. He did not know if there was such a thing, but he would swear it was so.
Somehow he no longer belonged in the simple, innocent settings, tainted as he was by war and bloodshed. Yet he craved it. The only thing he dreaded was his mother’s matchmaking. Would she have forsaken him by now?
Joshua was one of six; he fondly remembered their loud and lively gatherings. All his siblings had married and had children, so he expected the volume to be enough to lift the roof off the manor-house’s rafters. Would the Roxton family be there as well? He rode on into the quiet village; most country folk would have finished work and be sitting down to their supper by now. He had told his family to expect him, but not to delay a meal for him.
As he turned into the gates of Wychwood Hall, he was welcomed by the tall evergreens lining the drive. Inhaling deeply, the deep juniper scent was one of the fragrances that always reminded him of home. When the house finally came into view, it was a welcoming sight as candles brightened the windows.
A groom came out to take his horse, and as Joshua stood at the front door, graced with a wreath of holly, he smiled, for he could hear his family within. He did not bother to knock as he doubted it would be heard.
A crowd of merrymakers was the best description he could offer as he looked into the drawing room, full of adults and children alive with talk and laughter. They must have waited for him. He recognized some of the children, but not all, and the Roxton family and their brood appeared to be present.
“Joshua!” his mother exclaimed, being the first to see him. She hurried towards him with open arms and met him with a warm embrace. That was soon followed by each and every member of his family.
“I told him you would be here in time,” his brother, Simon, proclaimed.
“You should not have waited for me. Please go on ahead and I will be down as soon as I have made myself presentable.”
“Very well,” his father agreed. Joshua went upstairs to find a servant unpacking his saddle-bag.
By the time he returned, they were almost all seated. Whilst the adults sat at the very large table in the dining room, on special occasions another table was brought in for the children in an adjoining salon, opened up so they might all eat together.
He looked around and found the only remaining seat, which was between his mother and what must be one of the Roxton girls, who was now no longer a girl. Her auburn hair was arranged in elegant coils above a gown of deep green satin that set off a complexion like fresh cream, and yet something in the turn of her head seemed…familiar.
Perhaps this was his mother’s latest effort at matchmaking, he mused. Now he had to remember which one she was before he embarrassed himself.
There was Meredith—Merry—as she had always been called, who had been about fourteen when last he’d seen her, and could have been mistaken for a boy were it not for the two plaits she had worn. She had constantly plagued him and his brothers, wanting to best them at everything. But that young girl had been freckled and plain, and could not be this beauty before him.
The only other Roxton girl, Penelope, was a little older, but hethought he recalled his mother mentioning that she had married. That meant…he looked up and as if his mother understood his dilemma, she mouthed, ‘Merry.’ Then she turned to her other dinner partner on her left, leaving him to muddle through the awkwardness.
’Twas impossible this young lady could be… “Good evening, Merry.”
“Captain,” she returned. A footman placed a bowl of his favourite oxtail soup before him. His stomach growled with both appreciation and anticipation. It had been over six hours since he last stopped for a meal. “You did not recognize me, did you?”
Joshua paused as he was about to take a spoonful. He set down his spoon and looked at her. As he took in her auburn locks and pale green eyes, he noticed the barest hint of freckles dusting her nose and cheeks. The mischievous twinkle in her eyes—that understood precisely—seemed to dare him to be honest.
“No, I did not.”
“Without plaits and freckles, it is difficult, I am sure.”
“I had but to hear you speak,” he retorted. That sharp tongue of hers was unmistakable.
She laughed, a deep melodious sound that did something strange to his insides. No, that was his stomach, reminding him how long it had been since he’d eaten his favourite soup. He picked up his spoon and dipped it into the bowl of savoury broth.
They dined well. Roast goose, crisp-skinned and fragrant with sage; baked apples stuffed with raisins and almonds; carrots glazed in butter, and a haunch of venison from the neighbouring estate. Conversation flowed easily around him—news of mutual acquaintances, comments on the frost promising a skating party on Boxing Day, mild complaints about the scarcity of good apples this year.
He had almost begun to relax when Merry, in a tone of idle curiosity, asked, “Is it true you are attached to a secret troop in the army?”
