Page 21 of A Merry Christmas
His mother’s eyes were both kind and shrewd. “You cannot tell her as a man tells a girl. She is not a silly chit. You must tell her as one adult tells another adult he respects. If you face her being noble and long-suffering, she will want to lash out at you. If you make it a contest between you and Mr. Tremaine, she will defend the weaker argument out of stubbornness, which is a thing we both admire in her when it is not in the way of her future. Offer her facts and the confidence that she can bear them. Then stand out of her light.”
“‘Stand out of her light’,” he repeated, because the phrase struck home.
“Very likely she will resent you for a time,” his mother went on. “However, she knows the taste of truth and she trusts you, though she does not yet thank you for it.”
He drew breath. “If I were to speak first to Mr. Roxton?”
“You would wound her pride. A father must know, but let her be the one who takes it to him unless it becomes necessary. If you carry it, you will look like a man who wishes to fix a thing that is not his to mend.”
He nodded. “Then the how must be as simple as the what.”
“Choose your time and your place,” she said. “And, Joshua—do not tell her what to do. She will hear orders even where you do not intend them.”
He put a hand lightly upon her shoulder. “I will remember.”
By the time he found Merry, however, it appeared he was too late.
Merry had just reachedthe drawing room when the butler appeared with a card upon a salver. His expression was as smooth as the silver from which the tray was fashioned, yet Merry thought she saw something like curiosity behind the polish. He came directly to her.
“Mr. Barnaby Tremaine,” he announced, low enough for her ears alone, “asks if Miss Roxton will receive him for a few minutes.”
She felt the ground tilt. Penelope’s eyes flew to her face and then quickly away. The room had become suddenly large and far too bright.
“Thank you,” Merry said. “Show him to the green salon.”
The butler bowed and withdrew. Penelope caught her hand as if in play and gave it a quick press.
“Do you wish me to accompany you?” she asked under her breath.
Merry shook her head. “No. It is nothing. He comes to apologize for yesterday’s folly, I am certain.”
Penelope’s mouth tightened as if she had tasted something sour. She did not speak the thought that stood rested in her face. She released Merry’s hand and nodded once. The other ladies had not yet remarked on the exchange. Mrs. Fielding was laughing at something Mrs. Roxton had said about the vicar’s sermon. The room’s inhabitants carried on with their amusements.
Merry crossed the corridor. Her steps sounded louder than she liked, though she walked as she always walked. In the green salon the fire burned brightly. For an instant, she wished she could step into the grate and vanish up the chimney like smoke.
The door opened. Barnaby Tremaine came in with that smooth grace that could make even the act of closing a door seem a performance learned for an audience. He was very handsome in dark blue. His neckcloth was tied to a nicety.
“Merry,” he said warmly, and then corrected himself with a bow. “Miss Roxton.”
“Mr. Tremaine,” she returned, offering her hand. He bent over it with the proper degree of respect. No one watching them would have guessed that only two evenings before, beneath the mistletoe, she had pushed him away. No one would have guessed that yesterday morning Penelope had reported a scene at the tavern that had made even the married ladies purse their lips, nor the scene from this morning. Merry herself had spent the day walking in the park and turning over painful thoughts like cold stones in a pocket. She had not decided what to do with them. Now the man who had set every thought in motion stood smiling at her as if the world were at peace.
“I am come to beg an indulgence,” he began, taking the chair she indicated. “I was due at my father’s table and stole away from yours like a man with no manners. I would repair that transgression, if you will allow me.”
“You are here,” she said, and tried to keep her tone even. “That repairs much.”
He looked gratified. “You are goodness itself. If you knew how I have scolded myself. It is a cruel truth that Christmas-tide asks agentleman to be in three places at once. A fellow does his best and still offends everywhere.”
Merry folded her hands. She had thought to begin gently. The words that came out did not obey. “Who was the young lady in the sleigh with you this morning?”
He blinked. His smile shivered, then steadied. “You saw us?”
“I did. The lane below the rise turns an open curve. One cannot help but admire any equipage that takes it at such speed.”
“Ah,” he said lightly, though a muscle near his jaw stirred. “You will recall Mr. and Mrs. Dunning of Bruton Farm? Their second daughter, Miss Lydia Dunning, begged me for a turn. An old family acquaintance: a child almost. I could not deny her without seeming uncivil.”
Merry kept her gaze upon him. She knew of no such family, but that was neither here nor there. “She did not look a child. She looked very pretty and very warm at your side.”
Colour rose under his fine skin. “It was the only way to keep the blanket over her against the wind. The thing is nothing, I assure you. The Dunnings are respectable. You know how country folk think it a boon to have ridden with the Baron’s son. I did not wish to disappoint a house that has always shown my family loyalty.”
