Page 13 of A Merry Christmas
It was then that Tremaine let slip a remark pitched to travel—one of those silken sentences meant to be overheard and to bite. “I see the Captain has found his proper station,” he said to no one in particular, and yet to everyone. “It is a comfort when men discover their talents lie in the nursery rather than in company.”
Joshua’s back had taken worse from a French sabre than from agentleman’s insinuation, and he had no particular itch to answer. He set Rose down, adjusted her muffler, and said only, “One must rise to one’s level, Mr. Tremaine. I am just tall enough to catch children when they fall.”
There was a small sound—Merry’s breath, half-laugh, half-warning. Tremaine coloured, not with shame but with resentment at having been denied his provocation. “Come, Miss Roxton,” he said, offering an arm to escort her back toward the house as if he had cleared the way for her. “You cannot prefer the wind to the fire.”
Merry hesitated—Joshua saw it, though it lasted no longer than a snowflake on a glove—and then, in the habit of a young lady trained to spare others embarrassment, she took the arm. He spoke to her as one would speak to a person halfway decided upon, with an undertone Joshua recognized as ownership rehearsed to appear as courtesy.
Joshua gathered the sledges and the smaller troops and headed back.
By the time they reached the wide steps of Wychwood, all cheeks were apple-bright and all gloves ingloriously wet. The door opened to a rush of warm air and the welcome scent of wood smoke and cloves. Servants descended to take cloaks, and mothers applied that peculiar maternal inspection which scolds whilst hovering.
“Warm milk for the regiment,” Mr. Roxton declared, and Joshua wondered to himself if they always made so many army references, or were only doing so to humour him.
He allowed himself to be shepherded towards the great hearth, where the yule log radiated comfort from its red heart. The children installed themselves upon the rug, milk and slices of seed cake having been distributed to all.
Tremaine took up a position with studied negligence upon the far side of the hearth, Merry beside him in a chair before the fire. Joshua, who had determined to cease such convoluted thinking for at least ten minutes, found thought settling to him as snow settles on a hedge. He had told himself he could be content to remain unmarried—that the army required a man’s whole self, and that any other pretence was unfair to the woman persuaded to accept half. He had believed it too,in the dogged way a soldier believes the weather is what it is. Yet the last twenty-four hours had worked upon that certainty. There had been the children’s adoration—artless, unbought. There had been Merry’s laughter, not at him but with him. There had been an odd sensation on the hill when a little hand had slipped into his and trusted, without argument, that he would set the owner of it down safe. He had always supposed such things belonged to other men—men who did not sleep with their boots ready by the bed. It came to him, disconcertingly, that he wanted them—not in a vague someday, not as a sop to the decorum of his elders, but as a thing he would miss if he allowed it to pass—a wife, children, noise, warmth, a home that was not transient. The army was woven into him, but he was not dependent upon it. He had set out to prove himself capable of making his own way, and now he had nothing left to prove. Besides, most of their work was now situated in and about London.
He became aware he was staring at Merry. Tremaine, animated by the prospect of an audience unwilling or unable to flee, was recounting some anecdote from the cock-fight the previous day, adjusting it to be nearly respectable, and was working at the impossible arithmetic of making brutality sound like taste. Merry’s smile was courteous and cool. When Tremaine said, “Of course, a gentleman must keep up appearances. One cannot live altogether by country rules,” there was an emphasis upon gentleman that shaved the word like a blade. And when he turned to Merry with, “You will find, too, the mistress of a great house cannot always do as she likes,” the warning sang through the sentence like a note below the melody. “You will have nurses and nursemaids to help.”
Merry blushed.
Joshua’s fingers clenched and released against the curve of his mug. He had no right—and yet he felt it as a man feels a brand to the skin.
Merry refused to feel belittled.Whatever small sting his tone carried, he could not mean it. Barnaby Tremaine was simply careless, too used to his own way to mind how his words landed. He did not even realize how a look might sometimes cut like a blade. It was only the manner of a man who had always been obeyed and admired. He could not help it. That was what she told herself. She made excuse after excuse, as though each one might shield her pride. He meant nothing by it. He did not know how it sounded. He did not mean to belittle.
Her pride did not soften when he reached into his pocket and produced a small velvet case. He offered it with a flourish, bowing so low that several cousins turned their heads to watch.
“A token of the season,” he said.
Inside lay a bracelet of worked gold, the kind of ornament a lady might wear in London with perfect consequence. Small stones glittered in the firelight, so fine and numerous they seemed far above the simple attentions of courtship. Merry’s breath caught in her throat. Such a gift was not offered lightly. Surely this meant more? Surely it was the first step toward a declaration?
She lifted her eyes, but Tremaine only smiled, watching her delight as if it were amusement to him. He said nothing more. He seemed content that she should gape at the splendour.
“It is beautiful,” she said, her voice steady though her thoughts tumbled, “but I cannot accept it.”
His brows rose. “Why not?”
“Because we are not betrothed. It would not be proper.”
“What, that?” He laughed and waved his hand as if she had mistaken a diamond for a daisy. “It is a trifle. Nothing more. Do not make it heavier than it is. Wear it, Merry. It becomes you.”
She let him fasten the clasp, although unease pricked at her like hidden thorns. The gold lay cool and heavy on her wrist. He admired it, his gaze fixed more on the bracelet than on her face, and she wondered if the gift were meant to adorn her or to display his own generosity.
Still, she excused him. Perhaps he thought the gift would pleaseher family, a sign of his serious intentions. Perhaps he meant to speak later. Perhaps his silence was only hesitation. Surely he could not trifle with her so publicly?
After a little while, he asked her to walk him out. He must leave soon for dinner with his family, but he wished for a word first. She followed him into the hall, her pulse quick with expectation. This must be it. He would speak now.
The hall was hushed, hung with ivy and holly, the great ball of mistletoe swaying from its ribbon above them. Tremaine looked up at it and then down at her, his smile too knowing.
“You know the custom,” he said.
Her heart sank. “Is that all you brought me here to say?”
“Why not? A kiss beneath the mistletoe, and we might call it amerryChristmas indeed.” He chuckled.
She stood her ground. “You have never introduced me to your family. Not once have you invited me into their company. Why is that?”
He blinked, then recovered. “The occasion has not arisen. My father is busy with matters of estate. My mother is delicate. They are not in sufficient health for company.”
