Page 24 of A Merry Christmas
“He asked for three days.”
Mrs. Fielding entered and shut the door softly behind her. “Then we shall be particularly occupied for three days.”
“Doing what, precisely?”
“You are to continue exactly as you have been, giving her your attentions,” she said. “A woman does not change her mind in something like this without good cause and an alternative.”
“Am I to stand silent with damning proof that would only cause her future to be misery?”
“No, of course not.” His mother frowned.
“If she asks me for particulars?—?”
“You will give them, briefly and without relish,” his mother said. “You will not make a sermon of them. ’Twould be best for her to discover on her own.”
He nodded. “But there is very little time.”
“Then you had best busy yourself in showing her the better alternative.”
She turned and left before he could argue that he was not searching for a wife.
The next morningdawned sharp and bright, the snow crisping underfoot as the household made its way to church. Every churchmorning was much the same—bells chiming, children’s laughter echoing down the lane, breath misting like smoke in the cold—but that morning felt different to Merry. Her heart was uncertain, her thoughts too crowded. This was not the way a newly betrothed young lady should feel.
She had scarcely slept. The memory of Barnaby’s low, persuasive voice—keep it secret, my love, only for a few days—had tangled itself with dreams until she woke half convinced she had betrayed herself. Now, walking between her mother and Penelope, she pressed her muff close and told herself sternly that she should be happy. She was promised. She ought to glow with contentment.
Yet contentment refused to come.
The bells of St. Mary’s rang out across the valley, calling the faithful like silver hounds on a scent. The church stood golden and ancient against the blue morning sky, its steeple piercing the pale clouds. Villagers hurried along the lane in their Sunday best—bonnets trimmed with holly and boys in patched coats, grinning through the cold. It had always filled Merry with a kind of humble joy. Today it felt like stepping onto a stage.
Inside, the warmth of candles and bodies filled the air with that familiar mixture of beeswax and spice. The Roxtons took their customary pew near the front. The Fieldings gathered, a picture of good-natured disorder, with Joshua helping the children divest themselves of scarves and cloaks. His hair caught the candlelight. For one breath, Merry forgot to worry.
And then the stir began.
The Bruton carriage had arrived. The vicar himself straightened in the vestry doorway as though expecting royalty. The congregation turned slightly, heads tilting like flowers following the sun.
Lord and Lady Bruton entered first—imposing, wrapped in furs, heads held high. Their countenances were the perfect mixture of piety and condescension. Their pew, naturally, stood nearest the altar, draped with cushions embroidered with the family crest.
But it was not Lord or Lady Bruton who drew the whispered interest of the congregation. It was those who came behind.
Barnaby Tremaine led a young lady by the arm—a lady Merry knew at once, though she had prayed she might be mistaken. The same beauty from the sleigh, her bonnet pale blue to match the ribbons trailing from her muff. The girl’s laughter, low and musical, floated across the quiet church like perfume.
Merry’s breathing stopped.
Her first thought was disbelief. Her second, foolishly, was that perhaps Barnaby had not seen her, but of course he had. His gaze passed across the pews with the faintest flicker of awareness before he bowed to Lady Bruton and guided his companion gracefully into the family pew beside him. He looked entirely at ease, as though escorting one lady one day and proposing to another the next were nothing worth remark.
The congregation settled, though the air seemed thicker for all the whispers it held. The vicar began the service, his voice as sonorous as ever, but Merry heard scarcely a word. Her pulse thrummed in her ears.
Who was the young woman? Barnaby had told her the lady in the sleigh was a mere tenant’s daughter, but no tenant dressed in such finery, nor carried herself with such easy confidence. The ribbons on her bonnet were silk—London silk—and the fur about her shoulders could not have come from any Gloucestershire market.
Was it all a lie, then? Every word?
Her hands tightened within her skirts.
Joshua sat beside her, as solemn and steady as ever, his eyes fixed upon the vicar. He sang the hymns in his low voice. It always seemed to find the right note without effort. She envied him that steadiness—envied how little the world seemed to shake him. She wondered if he had noticed. He must have noticed. How could anyone fail to see the way the young lady leaned close to whisper to Barnaby, how she smiled up at him from beneath her lashes, how his answering look held the faint indulgence of a man used to being adored?
Heat burned behind Merry’s eyes; part shame, part fury.
Her mother touched her arm gently when it came time to stand for the reading. “Are you feeling unwell, my dear?”
