Page 11 of A Merry Christmas
“Not plain, only clear to a mother who has eyes.” She looked at him steadily. “Is it because of what he was, or because of what he is?”
“Both,” Joshua admitted. “As a boy he was arrogant, thoughtless and cruel in small ways that reveal much. As a man…tonight he walked into a church smelling of drink and boasting of wagers on cock-fights. If that is improvement, I shudder to think what decline would look like.”
His mother’s lips pressed together, although she did not immediately reply. At last she said, “Merry has always been dear to me, you know. I cannot pretend I am not troubled by the idea of her bound to a man whose pleasures run so shallow. Yet we cannot interfere; she must see for herself.”
“What I fear,” Joshua said quietly, “is that she will not see until it is too late.”
Mrs. Fielding set down her needles. “Joshua, you have returned to us with scars you think hidden. You carry burdens none of us can lighten. But do not make it your burden to order another’s heart. Warn her if you must. Protect her if you can. Beyond that, you must trust her judgement.”
He bowed his head. She was right, and he had no claims to preventMiss Roxton making the mistake. Yet he could not shake the memory of Merry’s uncertain smile in the candlelit nave.
“I will try,” he said at last.
His mother reached across, touched his hand briefly, and then, with a softness that startled him, said, “It is not only her welfare that troubles you, is it?”
Joshua looked into the fire and did not answer.
Merry awoketo the sound of bells. Not the solemn peal of church or the clamour of alarms, but the light chiming of the children who had discovered the basket of hand-bells used in the choir. They were running up and down the passage outside her chamber, jangling away with triumph, and she could not find it in her heart to scold them for Christmas had dawned, and the whole house was alive with it.
She rose quickly, for the air was sharp and the windows etched with frost. Pulling a shawl about her shoulders, she leaned over the sill. The garden below lay hushed and white, each shrub capped in snow, each branch glittering in the pale sun. Footprints marked the path where some adventurous child had already stolen out. It was a morning made for joy.
Yet Merry’s thoughts did not rise with the bells. Instead they drifted back to the night before—Mr. Tremaine’s late arrival, careless and a little too loud. She had told herself at the time it was nothing. Gentlemen of fashion amused themselves in many ways—cock-fights were hardly unheard of—but on Christmas Eve? And then to boast of it, when the children had only just sung of peace and goodwill?
She pressed her brow to the cold pane. His smile had been as polished as ever, but there had been something in his eyes, a brightness not entirely natural. She knew enough of men’s indulgences to guess at it. A little wine might be excused, but she could not shake the image of him entering God’s house with such a swagger.
Worse than her unease was the knowledge that Captain Fielding had noticed too. She had caught the flicker in his gaze, the tighteningof his jaw…and though she resented his presumption, she could not deny a small, unwelcome relief that he had seen what she had seen.
She brought a pensive finger to her lip. Was the feeling more to do with the fact that she wanted to prove him wrong or that it enhanced his case?
A knock sounded, and Penelope entered, cheeks already flushed from the morning’s bustle. “Merry, you must come down. The little ones are wild, and Mama insists we help keep order.” Merry managed a laugh and tied her ribbons. “Very well. Give me but a moment.”
When Penelope had gone, she looked once more into the snow-bright garden. She thought of Barnaby’s bow, of the compliments which glided so easily from his tongue. Then she thought of Joshua—his grave steadiness, the way he had led the children’s snowball fight without once making himself its hero. One dazzled; the other anchored. She ought to know which she preferred, but it was not as though the Captain was offering himself. No, he was merely trying to prove the other unworthy.
With a sigh, she drew her cloak about her and left the room. Christmas morning waited, with all its noise and laughter, but somewhere beneath it all lingered a question she could not yet answer: Had she been wrong about Barnaby Tremaine? If so, then what path should she follow?
Christmas breakfast at Wychwood Hall was less a meal than a carnival. Children included in everything at Wychwood, wriggled like eels upon their benches, sneaked sugar-plums having made them excitable, and the adults bore it all with the patience of those long used to disorder. Merry sat between two of her nephews, making certain spoons remained in bowls and napkins were not flung into the fire.
But rather than gifts, the morning’s pleasure was carols. After the dishes had been cleared by the servants, everyone gathered in the music-room, and Penelope took her seat at the pianoforte.
The children crowded around, holding sheets of paper they scarcely needed, for they sang more with vigour than with tune.
“I Saw Three Ships,” began in respectable harmony, though Rogerinsisted on being the page boy with such vigour that he sang over half the others. Then came ‘The Holly and the Ivy,’ sweet and lilting, followed by ‘God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen’, in which the gentlemen were anything but restful, booming the chorus until the chandeliers shook.
Merry sang with the others, her voice rising more from affection than a skill she knew she did not possess. She glanced once at Captain Fielding, who did not sing loudly but carried the line firmly as one would expect from him. The children were drawn to him despite his notable lack of softness.
Archie all but climbed into his lap in order to catch the words, and shy Rose pressed close to his side. Merry could not help but notice how naturally he bore it—no show, no fuss, simply the quiet strength of a man who was obeyed.
After the carols came games. Forfeits were played with much shrieking—Penelope lost hers and was commanded to recite a verse while balancing a plum pudding upon her head, which she did with such good humour that the younger ones nearly expired from laughter. Snapdragon was attempted, raisins plucked from blue flames with shrieks of triumph and failure, though more brandy was spilled than consumed with the fruit. And through it all, Joshua Fielding was the children’s unquestioned captain—directing, encouraging, never impatient.
Merry caught herself smiling too often. She reminded herself sternly that Barnaby Tremaine was equally attentive in his way.
The day brightened as the sun climbed, and soon the call went up for sledging. The snow lay crisp along the sloping meadow behind the house, untouched but for a fox’s neat tracks. The older boys had already dragged out wooden sledges from the barn and polished their runners with hopeful hands.
“Come, Merry!” Roger seized her cloak. “You promised to ride with us!”
She had promised no such thing, but her protests were drowned in cheers. Archie and Edmund immediately dashed away to fetch cloaks and boots, and in a merry procession they trooped to the hill.
The first runs were chaos, with the children piling two and three upon a sledge and shrieking all the way down until they tumbled in heaps at the bottom. Joshua tested a runner, adjusted a rope, then gave Roger’s sledge a proper push, sending him flying true down the hill. Cheers erupted. Soon, every child insisted upon Captain Fielding’s hand at their start, declaring him luck itself.
