Page 32 of A Merry Christmas
“I passed Tom on the road,” he said after a while. “He had a letter—and a look that suggested I ought not to ask what was in it.”
Merry nodded. “Then you know.”
He inclined his head, not pressing her.
“I have let Mr. Tremaine know,” she said at last. “There will be no more courting.” Merry hesitated. How she wished she could tell him that Tremaine had proposed, but that would only increase her shame.
His eyes met hers with quiet understanding. “You did rightly.”
She wanted to thank him, but the words tangled themselves and would not be said. It was far too easy to speak honestly with him. “I suppose it ought to make me feel better,” she said, “but it does not. I thought myself shrewd enough to judge a man’s worth. I was wrong.”
Joshua shook his head. “You were not wrong to believe in goodness. You were wrong only to believe it might be found in him.”
Merry looked down at the lamb, blinking hard. “It is humiliating, all the same. I prided myself on not being the sort of girl to be taken in by a handsome face. I even pitied those who were.”
He crouched beside her then, resting one arm on his knee. “You are not the first to be deceived by a charming rogue, and you will not be the last. I have seen officers gamble away their fortunes for a horse with a glossy coat and bad legs. There is no shame in mistaking surface for substance when the polish is well done.”
Despite herself, she laughed. The lamb finished drinking and nosed sleepily against Joshua’s sleeve. Merry smiled in spite of herself. “You see? Even this little creature trusts you.”
“She is an excellent judge of character,” he said gravely.
They laughed softly together, and the warmth between them was not only that of the lamplight.
When she had composed herself, she said, “Tell me truthfully, Captain—did you already know?”
He hesitated only a moment. “My superior wrote to me. He knows Lord Bruton. The family has brought a young lady down from London—a Miss Dunning, daughter to a wealthy man. Her fatherhesitates over the match because of Tremaine’s debts and reputation but Bruton is determined upon it.”
“So,” Merry said quietly, “the gossip was true.”
“It was,” Joshua said. “His debts are…considerable.”
She nodded, absorbing it without flinching. “Then I was only ever a convenience. A country diversion while he waited for better prospects.”
Joshua’s expression softened. “You were never a convenience. The pressure from his father is considerable.”
Her throat ached. “You are too generous.”
“Only honest,” he said simply.
The wind whistled faintly through the chinks in the boards. The lamb wriggled between them, warm and alive.
When she finally rose, Joshua offered his hand—not in gallantry, but as a steadying presence. She took it.
“Will you come to Wychwood?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said, after a pause. “I have done what I must here.”
By the time they reached Wychwood, dusk had thickened into early night. The windows shone golden through the mist, and warmth met them before they crossed the threshold. Mrs. Roxton received her daughter without question, merely a kiss upon her forehead.
The household was in lively disorder, preparing for the New Year’s Eve celebration. Unlike many households, the children were to be allowed up past their usual bedtime. Thrilled, they ran in and out of the hall, paper crowns askew, clutching wooden trumpets that produced more enthusiasm than tune. The grown-ups pretended not to mind.
As was tradition, the families gathered around the great hearth. Cheese toast was made on long forks, the gentlemen declaring themselves experts while the women exchanged amused glances. The children sang nursery rhymes far too loudly and forgot half the words. Laughter filled the house, softening even the ache in Merry’s chest.
Joshua sat near the fire, helping Roger—his arm still bound from the mishap skating—to turn the fork without spilling the toast into the fire. Merry watched him for a long moment, struck by how easilyhe fit among them, how naturally the children leaned toward him, how quietly he seemed to belong.
When midnight neared, the room hushed. The clock’s slow toll filled the silence, and as the final stroke faded, a cheer rose up—ragged, joyful, human. Glasses clinked.
“To health!” cried Mr. Roxton.
