Page 33 of A Merry Christmas
“To prosperity!” said Mr. Fielding.
“To happiness,” added Mrs. Fielding softly.
“And to kindness,” said Mrs. Roxton, her eyes on her daughter.
Merry raised her glass but said nothing.To courage, she thought, but she kept the word to herself.
When she looked up, Joshua’s eyes were on her. He smiled—quietly, without presumption—and inclined his head.
“May the new year bring you joy, Miss Roxton,” he said.
“Likewise, Captain Fielding,” she answered.
And though the ache in her heart was not gone, something in her steadied. She had faced what she must. She had chosen honesty over illusion—and perhaps, she thought, as laughter rose again around them, courage was its own beginning.
CHAPTER 12
New Year’s Day. Joshua was not one for resolutions, but he felt a little lighter in his heart, a bit more hopeful now that Merry had decided to break with Tremaine, and she had seen the man’s perfidy for herself with minimal interference from Joshua.
By noon, the ladies had bundled themselves into shawls and pelisses, and were heading down the lane in the carriage to call upon Mrs. Hargreaves and her new baby. Blankets, little caps, and lace-trimmed, woollen bootees filled their baskets. The gentlemen turned toward the village instead. Someone had declared they should join the annual village skittles tournament in honour of the year’s turning, and that it would be a shame to offend tradition.
The tavern was already thick with warmth when they entered, their boots stamping snow on to the flags. A smell of oak smoke, ale, and roasted onions wrapped the room like a familiar coat. The landlord’s broad grin greeted them before his words did.
“Ah, my fine gentlemen! The barn is prepared, and there are prizes that will make a man proud of his eyesight!”
“Prizes?” Mr. Roxton echoed. “You mean a pint for whoever misses least and infamy for whoever misses most?”
The villagers laughed, and everyone began with a pint. Beforelong, Joshua found himself in the barn next door, standing holding the bowl, the hum of good spirits about him. Chalk dusted the air as the steward kept score, and the small crowd cheered every knocked-down pin as if it mattered to the Empire.
“Steady, Captain,” Mr. Roxton called as he carried a tray with tankards of ale in from the tavern. “No military precision, if you please—let the rest of us have a chance!”
Joshua grinned, threw, and hit the pins cleanly. The company answered with a low, approving murmur.
It was just then that Barnaby Tremaine arrived.
The door swung wide; a gust of cold air curled through the room. He came in, his attire too polished for the company—coat of bottle green, neckcloth stiff enough to hang a hat on. His colour was high, his smile careless, and the smell of gin clung faintly beneath his cologne.
Tremaine’s voice carried above the talk. “Gentlemen! I could hear the laughter from halfway through the village. What game has you all in such good humour?”
“Skittles,” Caleb answered. “Would you care to join us?”
“With pleasure,” he returned, sweeping off his gloves. “But I could not insult such excellent players without adding some interest to the matter. What is a game without a wager?”
Joshua paused with his wooden bowl in mid-aim. “A friendly game remains friendly, Mr. Tremaine.”
Tremaine smiled; there were too many teeth in it. “Friendship without stakes is a dull business, Captain. A sovereign says I can best you in three rounds.”
A hush fell. Men who had been laughing a moment ago suddenly studied their tankards. There was no refusing without the landlord’s interference, and he would not nay-say the lord’s son.
Joshua’s voice stayed mild. “Very well—one sovereign.” He laid the coin down flat on a table beside the alley. “No more.”
The match began. Tremaine’s first toss knocked over several pins; the next, he hit the centre. He turned with a flourish, one hand out for applause that never came. Joshua followed, hitting all but the centrepin at once. The third round ended with a rout by Joshua knocking down all at once, and the crowd’s good humour returned in a rush of clapping and talk.
But Tremaine wasn’t content with that. In a louder voice than necessary, he ordered another round of gin. His laugh grew sharper, his gestures broader. Before long, he was flinging coins on the table at every new opponent, his voice slurred just enough to draw sidelong looks.
Two men unknown to Joshua entered, rougher in dress and manner, and took a corner without ordering. Their eyes swept around the barn once, then stayed on Tremaine.
Joshua noted them without seeming to. Men like that did not come to admire a village skittles tournament. Had they, perhaps, followed Tremaine?
