Page 45 of A Merry Christmas
Of course he would minimize his efforts. Courage, like warmth, seemed to return in little waves. “You are hurt nowhere?” she asked.
“Only my pride,” he said solemnly. “I had thought to prevent this folly.”
“It was my folly,” she insisted. “Had I listened to you sooner instead of my own pride…”
“I only want what is best for you, Merry.” Colour touched his cheekbones and vanished. He rose, as if he had said too much. “I shall see you in the morning,” he said.
“Good night, Captain,” she said, more formally than her heart intended.
He stood, and then, on some private impulse, took two steps nearer and reached for her blanket. He drew it an inch higher at the shoulder and tucked her in. His fingers brushed her shoulders, but she felt it to her toes. Then he kissed the top of her head and left.
When he had gone, the air he had warmed by standing in it cooled at once. She lay back and stared at the ceiling’s fine cracks and the shadows of holly pricked soft along the cornice. Exhaustion came at her from both ends—mind and body—but still her mind wondered. Could he forgive her stupidity? Could he see her as more than a silly little sister?
CHAPTER 15
The final days of Christmas-tide were always quieter. The music and laughter had thinned like the embers of the Yule fire, glowing still but softer now, more golden than bright. The holly wreaths had begun to crisp at the edges, and the evergreen boughs above the doors gave off a drier, sharper scent. In another day or two, the world would right itself from its brief season of magic and go on into the new year.
Joshua had always found this part of the season hardest—the moment between warmth and departure, when joy still lingered but farewell already waited at the door. This year, that ache was keener than before. He had begun to dread leaving Wychwood altogether.
Each morning since Merry’s rescue, the thought of London tugged at him less as a summons and more as a loss waiting to happen. The capital would seem dull and spiritless after this—after her.
He had not seen much of Merry since they’d returned that night. She had been surrounded by the women of both families—their compassion as smothering as it was well meant. Her mother and sister had scarcely let her out of their sight. His mother had taken to sitting beside her during tea, watching her with that mixture of maternal pride and concern women reserve for daughters not their own.Merry’s quietness had alarmed them all, though Joshua thought it no more than exhaustion—the kind of stillness that comes after fear, when one’s body remembers safety but one’s mind is slower to trust it.
The talk in the village, though, had been less kind. He had overheard it himself at the tavern that morning—two old farmers at the counter, a washerwoman by the door. All had opinions about Miss Roxton.
“Poor lass,” one had said. “She’s been led astray, she has.”
“She’s lucky the family has stood by her,” said another. “The outcome could have been much worse. That Tremaine fellow is a blackguard.”
Then, however, came the undertone Joshua had expected and dreaded—the whisper that travelled under every woman’s name once rumour caught hold.
“They say she was half taken in by him, though,” the washerwoman murmured. “It weren’t all force, I’ll wager.”
Joshua had left his ale untouched and gone out before he said something that would be remembered.
Those who had known Merry all her life—the tenants, the tradesmen, the servants—would stand by her, of that he was sure. They knew her temper, her kindness, her impossible honesty. Yet others would not. To some, the story would shrink to a single dangerous thread—a young lady who had looked too high and forgotten herself. The same mouths that had praised her beauty would purse in disapproval now that she had become an item of gossip.
Joshua clenched his jaw at the thought. It was no fault of hers that she had been deceived; no sin that she had trusted charm over character. Tremaine’s villainy was his own, and his punishment just, but the world rarely divided guilt so cleanly.
He would marry her if she would have him. The decision had shaped itself days ago, though he had not yet spoken it aloud. He could give her protection and peace, and perhaps, in time, something like joy. They dealt well together—that much he knew. She met himwithout artifice or fear, and she made him laugh when nothing else could.
And yet…
He could not be certain she wanted him. If he asked now, would she believe he offered out of pity—or guilt? She had suffered too much humiliation to bear either. Better, perhaps, that he should return to London, let time smooth the edges of her ordeal, and then—when she had rebuilt her pride—come back.
He turned that thought over all morning, his fingers worrying the coin in his pocket, until he found himself, by sheer instinct, seeking out his mother.
He found his mother in the morning room, the pale winter light falling over her embroidery frame. She was making a pattern of ribbons and holly leaves intertwined—and humming under her breath. At his step, she looked up, as sharp-eyed and calm as ever.
“Joshua,” she said, setting down her work. “You have that look about you.”
He smiled faintly. “Do I look as miserable as I feel, then?”
“No, dear, you look worse,” she said forthrightly. “Now sit down and tell me what trouble you have made for yourself.”
He obeyed, though his hands remained restless on his knees. “Not trouble, precisely,” he said slowly, “but—Mother, what would you think if I told you I meant to offer for Merry?”
Mrs. Fielding’s needle paused in mid-air, gleaming like a captured drop of sunlight. “What would I think?” she repeated softly. “I think it has taken you long enough to realize you were meant for each other.”
