Page 35 of A Merry Christmas
“Go to the devil.”
“After you.” Joshua steadied him until he could stand.
Back inside the tavern, clatter of tongues had resumed—and the business of men pretending not to have seen what they had. Joshua guided Tremaine to the table and poured a mug of water, setting it before him.
The man’s hand trembled as he drank. He wiped his mouth with the back of his glove and leaned closer. “Were you eavesdropping?”
Joshua did not answer.
“She will have me yet,” Tremaine muttered. “She has promised. Her word is given.”
“Her word,” Joshua said, low enough that only Tremaine could hear, “was taken by deceit. It is not binding.”
Tremaine’s smile twisted. “We will see about that, Fielding.”
He pushed to his feet and swayed, half-defiant yet half-broken. A few of the villagers moved aside to make way for him. He threw down a coin, sneered at its smallness, and stalked toward the door.
Joshua let him go. Outside, the wind was swirling and harsh. The men of Wychwood and Roxton followed him, boots crunching the snow that had already begun to gather in the ruts.
“What happened?” Matthew asked.
Joshua adjusted his gloves. “He is in trouble with moneylenders. They gave him three days’ grace.”
Mr. Roxton frowned. “And that concerns us?”
“It does,” Joshua said. “He is desperate…and desperate men chase whatever they think might save them.”
The older man’s face hardened. “Merry.”
Joshua nodded once. “We must keep her close. He is badly dipped.”
They said no more after that. The wind rose, driving the snow in thin white ribbons along the hedgerows. When the house lights came into view. Joshua’s stride lengthened. He had no intention of ever again letting Barnaby Tremaine come within a hundred yards of Merry.
The visitto Mrs. Hargreaves ought to have been a cheerful one. The ladies had filled the cottage with laughter and admiration, their arms laden with blankets and gowns, their voices softening instinctively in the presence of the new baby.
Merry had smiled and admired like the rest, but when the infant’s tiny fingers closed around hers, something inside her wavered. The soft warmth, the sweet milky scent, the absolute trust of the little creature—all stirred a melancholy she could neither name nor control.
It was ridiculous, she told herself as she rode back in the Fieldings’ carriage. Ridiculous and ungrateful, she told herself irritably. She had her health, her family and more than enough comfort. Yet the image would not leave her: the baby’s cheek nestled against its mother’s neck, the quiet contentment of belonging.
By the time the carriage turned away from the village, she could bear the confinement of it no longer.
“Would you mind setting me down at the home farm?” she asked. “I should like to see how the lambs are doing. Dawkins can bring me home later.”
Her mother gave her a knowing look but nodded, and Mrs.Fielding relayed her instructions to the coachman, who, used to the whims of his betters, said nothing. When the carriage halted before the familiar low buildings, Merry stepped down into the crisp afternoon and the carriage rolled on. The sky hung white and thin, the air sharp enough to make her breath cloud. The bleating of ewes came faintly from the fold.
Dawkins emerged from the barn wiping his hands on a bit of sacking. His grey hair stuck out beneath his cap, and his ruddy face brightened when he saw her.
“Good day to you, Miss Merry. I had not expected you again so soon.”
“I wished to see the new lambs,” she said, smiling a little. “I thought the fresh air might cure my restlessness.”
He chuckled. “Ah, the country’s physic, that is. I was just about to step up to the house for my dinner. My daughter’s roastin’ a goose, and if I don’t appear soon, she will send the boy to fetch me by the ear.”
Merry shook her head. “Do not stay on my account. I want only to spend a little time among them. I will be quite safe here.”
Dawkins hesitated, looking toward the darkening edge of the fields. “Very well, miss. I will not be long. I shall fetch you back to Wychwood myself.”
“Do not rush,” she said kindly. “I promise not to lose my way between one pen and the next.”
