Page 46 of A Merry Christmas
“Mother—?”
“Oh, do not look so scandalized, Joshua. You have worn your heart upon your sleeve since Christmas Eve.”
He laughed, a little helplessly. “Quoting Othello? You think me in love, then?”
“I think you are in turmoil,” she said, “which is near enough to the same thing.”
He sobered. “If I could be sure it would not harm her further, Iwould ask her now, but I—perhaps I should wait. Give her time. Let the village gossip fade before?—”
“Oh, nonsense.” Mrs Fielding waved her hand as if batting away an insect. “You gentlemen always imagine we are delicate. She will suffer more if you wait. I think she had realized Tremaine was unworthy before he ever put his hand on her arm.”
Joshua exhaled. He had known that, deep down. Merry had begun to suspect Tremaine’s attentions were not as honourable as she had wished. He’d seen it in the way her eyes had hardened with hurt even before the night of her abduction, when she had sent the letter to break the betrothal.
“She did know,” he said quietly. “But that does not mean her heart was untouched, nor that she has room in it for me.”
Mrs. Fielding looked at him for a long moment. There was a glint of amusement in her gaze, but also something warmer—maternal pride, perhaps, or simply recognition. “I know for a fact, my dear,” she said at last, “that Merry has always sought your attention. She only pestered you because you were too proud to notice her.”
“We were just children,” he said, though the words rang weakly even to his own ears.
His mother scoffed delicately. “Children know what they like, even if they cannot name it. You were the only one she ever followed into mischief. She thought the sun rose and set by your lead.”
He rubbed the back of his neck, embarrassed and oddly heartened. “Then why did she accept Tremaine?”
“Because she was out of options, my dear.” Mrs. Fielding’s tone softened. “A young woman of fortune may have many admirers and no freedom at all. She took the first man who seemed to offer her both admiration and escape. Do not judge her for it. In loneliness, we have all made foolish choices.”
Joshua sat back, remaining silent. Could it be true? Had Merry truly looked to Tremaine out of desperation rather than affection? That seemed an insult to her spirit, yet he could not entirely dismiss it. He had seen that same restlessness in her—the yearning to belongsomewhere, to be more than the spinster sister left behind when others married.
He remembered her laughter when skating, bright and infectious; then her calm at the farmhouse when she had been half-frozen and yet still tried to thank him before giving herself credit. A woman like that would not settle for pity; but love—for love she might take the risk.
Mrs. Fielding watched him, smiling a little. “You think too much,” she said. “A woman’s heart is not a riddle to be solved on a battlefield. Go to her. Tell her what you feel. If she refuses, at least you will have spoken the truth. It is better than silence.”
“Perhaps,” he said, though doubt still pricked. “But if she refuses, she will not only lose a suitor—she will lose a friend.”
“Joshua,” his mother said, reaching across the space to take his hand, “she will never lose that. Whatever else happens, she trusts you, and that is worth more than all the proposals in Christendom.”
He smiled faintly, though the ache in his chest remained.
That evening, as the last of the daylight faded into dusk, Joshua walked up and down the terrace outside the library. From there, he could see the glow of the drawing room through the windows—the gentle chaos within. The ladies sat by the fire, their laughter softer now, the rhythm of contentment returning. Merry was there, between her sister and Mrs. Fielding, her hair loosely plaited in quiet defiance of decorum.
She looked tired, but not fragile. Her eyes were turned toward the hearth, and her smile—small, inward, half-formed—was one he’d never seen on her lips before.
Joshua stood watching until the cold crept through his gloves, then turned back toward the door.
Could his mother be right? Could it truly be that Merry’s heart had looked his way all this time, and he had been too blind to see it?
He remembered her voice on the road home, half-asleep against him. ‘I knew you would come.’
It had sounded like belief.
Now, as he entered the house, the warmth of the fire and the humof laughter wrapping around him, he thought—perhaps—that belief was where love began.
Tomorrow, he would ask her. Not from pity, not from duty, but because she deserved to hear, from his own lips, what she had already proved in his heart: that she was the bravest, finest, and dearest woman he had ever known.
And if she said no—well, then he would carry her memory with him as a mark of honour, not loss of love.
He crossed to the drawing room door, and paused, just long enough to see her lift her head and glance his way, as if sensing him there.
Her eyes met his, and for the first time since that terrible night, she smiled fully—warm, unguarded and alive.
