Page 16 of A Merry Christmas
So much, he reflected wryly, for letting Tremaine bury himself, but matters had changed with the revelations of that night.
He blew out the candle and let the darkness close about him, the letter sealed upon the desk, his resolve to provide facts firm.
Boxing Daydawned crisp and bright, the air keen with frost, though the sun spilled over the snow with a brilliance that made the whole countryside sparkle as if set with jewels. Merry had always loved the morning after Christmas. It lacked the grandeur of the day itself, but there was a pleasant bustle in the household. Boxes of gifts had been prepared for the servants—lengths of cloth, ribbons, stockings, spices, and purses of coin for those in long service. The family assembled in the great hall to hand them out, the children skipping about with far more noise than dignity, eager to see the grooms and maids unwrap their parcels.
Merry watched with fondness as Mrs. Fielding pressed a box into the butler’s hands and thanked him for another year of diligence, while the older children ran to present baskets of fruit to the kitchen girls. The cook was nearly in tears when Roger shyly handed her a shawl he had chosen himself. There was laughter, bows, curtsies, and many grateful smiles, and Merry thought how fitting it was that those who worked so hard behind the scenes should have their own day of honour.
By mid morning, the servants had been released to enjoy theirholiday, and the grand kitchen, usually a flurry of pots and pans, grew suddenly quiet. It fell to the ladies of the house to contrive a light luncheon for the family, though in truth there were so many of them that even a ‘light’ meal looked like a banquet. Cold meats, pickled salmon, loaves of bread, cheese, and pies were assembled on platters, with cider and ale set out for good measure.
The kitchen bustled with feminine chatter as the ladies worked side by side. Mrs. Roxton, sturdy and capable, directed the arrangement of dishes with her usual authority, while Mrs. Fielding occupied herself with trimming a plate of cakes. Penelope sliced bread with brisk efficiency, her cheeks flushed, while the Fielding brothers’ wives—five of them—arranged salads and fruits.
Merry carried a plate of pigeon pies to the table, trying to look as composed as the others, though her thoughts strayed toward Barnaby Tremaine. The bracelet still lay upstairs in its box, hidden from sight but not from her mind.
“Penelope,” Mrs. Roxton said, wagging a finger as her daughter reached for another knife. “Do be careful. You are as quick with your hands as your tongue, and both will land you in trouble if you do not slow down.”
“I would rather be quick than dull,” Penelope returned, her eyes sparkling, “and I have something worth the telling.”
Her tone caught the attention of all at once. Even Mrs. Fielding looked up from her cakes.
“What is it now?” asked one of the sisters-in-law, adjusting her cap.
“My husband came home very late last night,” Penelope said, lowering her voice in a way that made everyone lean closer. “As did all of the gentlemen.”
The women grumbled their acknowledgement.
“They had been at the tavern, and you will not believe what he saw—or perhaps you will, if you have eyes.”
Merry’s heart gave an uneasy throb. She already suspected which name would follow.
“Mr. Tremaine,” Penelope announced with relish, “losing heavily at cards, behaving as if money grows on trees and—most shamefully—with a woman in his lap. And she was not a lady, if you take my meaning.”
The room went very still.
“Penelope!” Mrs. Roxton exclaimed, scandalized. “There are children present, and Merry?—”
“Merry is near one-and-twenty,” Penelope cut in firmly. “She is old enough to hear it. It is better she should hear the truth now than be dazzled by pretty speeches later if he means to court her.”
Mrs. Fielding set down her knife. “You are certain?”
“Lennox could hardly mistake it. Ask the others,” Penelope said. “The fellow was drunk with losses. He threw good money after bad, swore like a sailor, and laughed as though it were all sport. And when the cards turned against him again, he kissed the woman as if that would bring him luck. Disgraceful.”
The sisters-in-law murmured among themselves, their eyes darting toward Merry with thinly veiled curiosity.
Merry’s face burned. She wanted to vanish into the floor. The thought of Barnaby in such company, behaving so recklessly, humiliated her to the very bone. Had she not been wearing his bracelet only yesterday? Had she not endured his kiss beneath the mistletoe, convincing herself it meant something? To hear now that he squandered coin in public and allowed such women to sit upon his knee—it made her feel foolish and naïve, even ridiculous.
Mrs. Roxton cleared her throat. “Well, if Merry wishes to marry into a higher station, she must be willing to look the other way. That is how things stand among the aristocracy. Husbands stray; wives endure. It is not admirable, but it is the way of the world.”
The sisters-in-law nodded with resignation.
“It is not always so,” Mrs. Fielding said quietly. “There are marriages of respect as well as convenience. Do not tar all unions with the same brush.”
“Respect is well enough in stories,” Mrs. Roxton countered, “but in reality most ladies must accept what they are given. If they wish for a title, they must bear the burdens of it.”
“And the burdens are heavier than the jewels,” one of the wivessaid with a sigh. “My cousin married a lord and spends half her time alone while he roves from town to town. She has gowns and a carriage but no peace.”
The talk grew animated, each woman offering her own tale of some lord or baronet who kept mistresses, who squandered fortunes, who treated wives as little more than ornaments. Penelope declared she would never trade her steady husband for the grandest title in England, and Mrs. Fielding agreed, saying she valued kindness above consequence. Mrs. Roxton retorted that such talk was well enough for women who already had husbands, but a girl of one-and-twenty must think of her future.
Merry stood very still, her hands gripping the edge of the table until her knuckles whitened. The words cut deeply, each one pricking like a thorn. She had dreamed of rising above the narrow life of the Cotswolds, of stepping into something finer. And now she was told that to marry into such a world, she must accept betrayal, humiliation, and neglect as part of the bargain.
