Page 10 of A Merry Christmas
Snow had a way of softening the world, smoothing its edges until even the roughest hedgerow looked like something contrived by an ethereal hand. Joshua had marched through snow that froze a man’s boots solid and buried supply wagons in drifts, but Gloucestershire snow was gentler—thin, sparkling layers that caught the moonlight and seemed to lend a hush to every sound.
It was under such a sky that the Fielding and Roxton families, wrapped in cloaks and mufflers, walked down the lane toward the church for the Christmas Eve service. Lanterns swung from poles carried by the older boys, their glow falling in golden pools upon the whitened road. Excited chatter rose and fell, and every breath made clouds of silver in the frosty air.
Joshua walked with Roger on one side, who was determined to prove he could carry his lantern higher than anyone else, and Merry on the other, her gloved hand holding her cloak closed at her throat. She had tied a fur muff about her wrist, though it dangled unused, for she insisted upon pointing things out to the children—the dark outline of an owl in the trees, the sparkle of frost on a hedge, the faint light in a cottage window.
Archie was falling behind, so he scooped him up and tossed himon to his shoulders. Soon, then, Merry found herself with little Rose on her hip.
The church bell tolled as they came into the village. Its small tower, dusted white, looked like something out of a carol itself. Candles already glimmered through the leaded glass panes, and a warm trickle of music drifted from within—bells ringing, voices laughing. Inside, the little church was bright with evergreens. Holly branches filled every nook, evergreen boughs hung over the pew ends, and a great spray of ivy curved around the pulpit. The scent was of beeswax, wood smoke, and the cold breath of many people in close quarters. Families pressed together in the narrow pews, every bonnet and coat steaming slightly as snow melted from their shoulders.
The Fielding and Roxton party filled several rows. Joshua found himself beside Merry once more—whether by accident or conspiracy of their mothers, he could not be sure. He told himself it was immaterial. She smelt faintly of cloves, no doubt from having handled the spiced cakes earlier. He tried not to notice.
The vicar, who knew better than to be too long-winded on Christmas Eve, led them through carols and prayers. Then came the moment the children had been waiting for: the Nativity.
A curtain of bedsheets had been strung across the chancel, and when it drew back, there stood the manger, constructed of rough planks, with a doll carefully swaddled in white to represent the Christ child. Behind it, a row of children in makeshift angel wings of muslin and tinsel sang a carol in voices both high and sweet.
Merry leaned forward as the little shepherds came tumbling in, wooden crooks in hand. One boy forgot his lines and announced stoutly, “We saw angels, and they were very loud,” which brought muffled laughter from the pews. The angels attempted to look stern and failed.
Then came the Magi, solemn in dressing gowns borrowed from fathers, with wooden crowns painted gold. The tallest of them carried a box so heavy it nearly tipped him into the hay, and the vicar’s wife had to steady him. Through it all, the doll in the manger lay serenelyswaddled, as if impervious to the chaos of the world it had come to redeem.
Joshua felt something tighten in his chest as the children knelt before it, singing, ‘Hark the Herald Angels Sing’. He had seen battlefields on Christmas Eve, with men huddled round fires, singing in tongues not their own, and he thought suddenly of them—all those who had not come home to their families. He glanced at Merry. She was singing too, softly, her green eyes fixed on the little manger as though she saw more than muslin and straw.
It unsettled him that he could be moved by her quiet devotion almost as much as by the carol itself. He looked away quickly, to the frost forming patterns on the window-panes.
The service drew to a close with prayers for the King, for peace, for the harvests and hearths of the parish. Families lingered, exchanging greetings and compliments, and admiring the children’s efforts. Joshua found himself engaged in conversation with an old tenant farmer, Mr. Carter, who remembered him as a lad who had once fallen through the ice on the millpond. Merry laughed when this story was retold—“I remember! He came home as soaked as a sponge, and swore me to silence lest Mrs. Fielding forbid him to go skating ever again.”
It was then, just as the company was preparing to depart, that Barnaby Tremaine arrived.
The door creaked open with a gust of icy air, and heads turned. He entered not as a man hurrying from some innocent delay, but with the slow confidence of one who knows he will be noticed. His coat was of excellent cut, though dusted with snow as if he had travelled in haste. His cravat was loosened—slightly, but enough for Joshua to mark it. His eyes were too bright, his smile a shade too broad.
Merry’s expression flickered. Relief, Joshua considered, for she had no doubt expected him, but there was also something else—an unease she tried at once to smother.
“Where have you been, Mr. Tremaine?” she asked lightly, as if she did not care. “You have missed the entire service.”
“Business detained me,” he said smoothly. “There was a gatheringat Bruton’s farm—cocks to be tested, wagers to be made. I could not refuse the invitation, you understand, but I would not miss the Christmas service for the world, although I see I am late.”
He laughed, as though cock-fights and church services belonged to the same programme of a gentleman’s amusements. The villagers nearby exchanged glances, some disapproving, some eager for gossip.
Joshua said nothing, but the words pressed against his teeth: cock-fights on Christmas Eve, and strong drink in his step. That was the man she would trust? Joshua should feel relief that Tremaine was doing the proving himself, but he did not care to see Merry hurt.
Merry attempted to smile, though it did not reach her eyes. She touched Tremaine’s sleeve with a courtesy that looked rehearsed, then excused herself to help gather the younger children into their cloaks. Joshua watched her cross the little nave, head held high, and thought she carried herself in the manner of a woman who had just glimpsed a crack in a mirror she had polished too carefully.
Outside, the snow had thickened into a steady fall. Lanterns swung once more as families began the walk back up the lane. Children skipped and sang snatches of carols, while the adults discussed the Nativity with fond amusement. Merry walked ahead with the younger ones, adjusting scarves, her voice light but her expression distracted. Tremaine strode beside her, talking too loudly of wagers won and lost.
Joshua kept a little behind, silent and watchful. He told himself it was not his business. Yet the sight of Merry glancing sideways at Tremaine, her smile uncertain, lodged itself in him like a thorn.
The snow crunched beneath their boots, the bell tolled behind them, and Joshua thought grimly that this Christmas Eve had set more than one revelation alight. The parents ushered their children upstairs to bed, then returned for a while of parlour games and visiting carollers, but eventually the house settled into its Christmas Eve hush, and the great log burned with a steady glow, as if determined to keep vigil until morning.
Joshua lingered near the hearth, a glass of mulled wine cooling in his hand. He ought to have retired as well, but the weight of theevening pressed upon him—the sight of the Nativity, the memory of men who had not lived to see another Christmas, and most of all the look on Merry’s face when Tremaine spoke of cock-fights as though they were not a barbaric pastime.
He was still turning over these thoughts in his mind when his mother came quietly into the room. She carried her knitting—though he doubted she could see in the dim light—and seated herself across from him with the familiarity of one who had never asked permission to share her children’s confidences.
“You are restless,” she observed, without preamble.
He smiled faintly. “It is the soldier’s habit, perhaps.”
Her needles clicked a few times before she added, “You do not like Mr. Tremaine.”
Joshua drew in a breath. “Have I been so plain?”
