Page 19 of A Merry Christmas
“London has its virtues, but will never compete with the country for quiet.”
They slowed at a gate where the hasp stuck. Joshua swung down and set it right with a firm lift. When they moved on, she said, “Would you enjoy more time in Town, Captain?”
“I enjoy London well enough when there is a reason to be there,” he answered. “I like the stimulation of my work, and the company of my colleagues, who excel at it.”
“Then the country suits you better, yet you would not leave the army,” she said, not as a challenge, only as a fact she wished to lay beside the others.
“No,” he answered. “I know the feel of that work. It is not gentle and it is not always fair, but it is rewarding. I also know that men must have more than idleness if they mean to grow old without becoming soft.”
They rode on in companionable quiet. A crow lifted from the hedgerow and scolded them. Far off, the river lay like a strip of pewter, edged with ice that would harden by nightfall. She had enjoyed mornings alone all her life, although she had longed for the better pleasure of someone beside her.
“Would you live more in the country if you could?” she asked, as if she had only just given herself leave to wonder.
“Yes,” he said, and the ease of the answer surprised her.
“Would you miss London?”
“Not much,” he replied, and she smiled.
The path narrowed where two old oaks leaned together across it. Simultaneously, they ducked their heads through the twined branches. Merry’s hat brushed a snow-laden twig and sent a soft drift over her cloak. She shook it off, laughing. Some lightness had crept back into her courtesy of his company, yet the restlessness remained.
They reached the stile where the meadow fell away toward the lower spinney. The air smelled faintly of wood smoke from a cottage beyond the ridge.
“A person could make a life of mornings like this,” she said, meaning it and almost wishing she did not.
“A person could,” he said, “and some would call it a small life because it looks small from a distance. On closer inspection it is a great one.”
She looked aside at him. “You speak as if you had measured both.”
“From too many people have I stood far-off and judged them wrongly,” he said. “I hope I am learning to stand closer.”
“You are quite philosophical. I would not have supposed it about you.”
She felt almost content. Then she remembered the bracelet hidden away upstairs and the way Mr. Tremaine’s mouth had hardened when she refused him liberties under the mistletoe. The contentment faltered, as thin as ice above a brook.
“Captain,” she said, and then did not know how to shape the rest, so she said, “Thank you for the ride this morning.” Then, before she could school the words, she added, “Commonly I ride alone, but I enjoyed having your company.”. Heat rose in her face and somehow she turned it into a laugh. “The sheep prefer two fools to one sage,” she said quickly, lest he think she was flirting with him. She must remember her purpose.
They topped the last rise. Wychwood lay below them, calm beneath its winter cap. The roofs and chimneys were softened by snow. Merry’s spirits had lifted, too—her cheeks still tingled from the cold air, her heart quickened with the glad sense of being alive, of sharing a morning that had felt unusually free.
As they began their descent, she thought how very nearly perfect it had all been. The crisp air, the steady mare beneath her, the companionable quiet with Joshua. At that moment, she might have believed that life could be simple.
The road curved past the gates of Lord Bruton’s manor, tall and imposing even beneath its frosting of snow. Merry glanced through them idly, expecting only to see the wide sweep of lawn, the dark evergreens edging the drive. What she did see struck her like a slap.
Across the lawn, cutting twin tracks in the snow, sped a shining sleigh. The horse’s bells jingled gaily, and Barnaby Tremaine himself held the reins, handsome in his dark coat, his posture the very pictureof ease. Beside him sat a lady wrapped in fur, her bonnet trimmed with crimson ribbons. She leaned close, laughing as though the world held no shadows, her face lifted to Barnaby’s with unguarded delight.
Merry’s breath caught. She stiffened in the saddle.
Joshua saw it too—she felt rather than witnessed the change in him, the way his horse shifted in response to his hand. But he said nothing. He did not need to. The sight spoke loudly enough.
Barnaby had not seen them, or else he cared little who witnessed his gaiety. He flicked the reins, and the sleigh bounded forward across the lawn, the lady clutching at his arm in mock alarm, her laughter ringing clear through the frosty air.
The sound seemed to echo in Merry’s very chest. A wave of humiliation swept over her—hot and stinging, which seemed absurd against the cold. It was as though all her doubts of the past days had taken flesh and presented themselves before her eyes, daring her to deny them. The bracelet upstairs, the kiss that had left her cold, the whispers from the tavern—each accusation returned now with a companion in fur and ribbons.
Her mare tossed her head, feeling the hard grip of her rider’s hand. Merry gathered the reins and turned sharply from the gate.
“I must go on,” she said, her voice tight. She did not wait for Joshua’s answer. She pressed the mare into a brisk trot, her skirts swaying and her chin high, as though she could ride away from what she had seen.
The beautiful morning had shattered. The light, that moments before had seemed to gild the fields, now mocked her. She heard still, in memory, the young woman’s laughter beside Barnaby, so light and careless. It pierced her, though she told herself angrily it ought not. What right had he, if he meant to court her, to parade another in so familiar a fashion? And if he did not mean to court her—then what a fool she was.
