Page 27 of A Merry Christmas
“It’s his wrist,” Joshua said at once, dropping to one knee. He brushed away the snow and examined the small, trembling hand with practised precision. “Clean break, I’ll wager. We will need to set it straight away before the swelling begins.”
Merry knelt beside him, her expression calm though her breath came fast. “Tell me what to do.”
He glanced at her briefly, meeting those clear, resolute eyes. “Hold his shoulder firmly. I will straighten it quickly.”
She nodded, tightening her hold about the boy’s upper arm, murmuring soothing nonsense into his ear. “There now, Roger, brave boy, look at me—not at him. Keep your eyes on mine.”
Joshua took the wrist in both hands, his grip sure but gentle. “One breath in, lad,” he said quietly, “and let it out.” On the exhale, he drew the limb into alignment with one swift motion. Roger cried out, but held still.
“Well done,” Joshua murmured. “The worst of it is over.”
Merry exhaled shakily, colour returning to her cheeks. “You did that as if you had done it a hundred times.”
“More than I care to count,” he said, giving her a faint smile. “Soldiers are forever breaking something. The trick is to do it quickly before they realize what you are going to do.”
She tore her scarf from around her neck without hesitation. “Here—use this to keep it still.”
Together they worked efficiently, Joshua fashioning a rough splint from two stout twigs fetched by a nearby boy and binding them with Merry’s scarf. Their movements fell into a rhythm—his steadiness and her care combined seamlessly. When it was done, Roger managed a watery grin.
“There, now,” Merry said, brushing a curl from his forehead. “No more heroics for today. You shall dine like a king tonight for yourbravery.”
Joshua lifted the child easily into his arms, feeling the weight of the small body settle against his shoulder. Merry skated beside him, steadying the boy’s head against the jostling.
“You are very good with them,” she said softly as they crossed the snow.
“Experience,” he replied. “Half my regiment were still boys.”
She looked up at him then, eyes bright with quiet admiration. “You make even the worst of things seem manageable.”
He met her gaze and felt something stir, more dangerous than gratitude. He only hoped that when the time came to reveal Tremaine’s perfidy, she could still admire something about him.
Three days had draggedby since Sunday with no word, no sighting, no visit from Mr. Tremaine. In a place as small as Wychwood, silence was never simply quiet—it was a kind of noise all its own, humming with what was not said. Merry found she could not abide it another moment. If she sat in the morning room, the clock beat out anxieties with every tick. If she walked in the park, the bare trees seemed to hold their breath as she passed. She could not ride, because the ice was treacherous on the north path, and she did not trust her temper upon an icy lane, nor would she risk her horse. And so, out of stubbornness as much as sense, she took herself where heat and work might conquer useless feeling: into the kitchens to bake.
It was New Year’s Eve. The house smelt of evergreens and beeswax and the scent of pies baking. Copper pans hung from their hooks, and the range glowed with flame. Mrs. Dempsey, the cook, ruled the room with curt orders. Two scullery maids darted to and fro with pans and pails. Someone laughed in the corridor and a footman’s whistle came and went, cheerful and just shy of impertinence. It was a world of purpose. Merry loved it for that.
“Miss Merry!” cried Mrs. Dempsey when she entered with hersleeves already rolled to her elbows. “You’ll turn your hands to butter in here, you will. The heat would melt a statue.”
“I shall risk it,” Merry said, tying on an apron. “I mean to make biscuits, if you please.”
Mrs. Dempsey’s eyebrows climbed, pleased and suspicious at once. “You are always welcome, though the making of biscuits is a servant’s task, to be sure.”
“Then let me be a servant for an hour,” Merry returned, and there must have been something in her tone that made Mrs. Dempsey stop looking for the pretty reason and settle for the honest one.
“Well, then—your chocolate’s there,” she said briskly, pointing with her floury elbow, “and your sugar there. Beat the eggs well. You will need more flour. Bess, fetch another bowl for Miss Merry—no, the big one.”
Merry smiled and set to. The ritual soothed her. She had been a nuisance to their own cook at times, she was sure, but that lady allowed her to help when Merry needed something to do. She measured flour into the great bowl—two pounds, then a third. She added three ounces of salt, and one pound of sugar as Mrs. Saxby had taught her when she was twelve and determined to master the art. She cut in cold butter by hand, rubbing until the mixture looked like snow rubbed with sunlight.
Then she used a wooden spoon, relishing the familiar effort in the shoulder and wrist as the whole came together. When the spoon could do no more, she turned the dough onto the table and worked it with both hands until it yielded—not sticky, not dry, just the right texture. It felt as though she were kneading her impatience into something that might bear being near other people.
“Roll it thinner than your temper, my dear,” Mrs. Dempsey advised, passing her the rolling pin. “Then cut us angels and stars. The little ones like the shapes.”
“The little ones shall have them,” Merry said, setting the pin to the dough. The first pass spread it smooth, while the second took shape.
“Miss Merry bakes like a dream,” declared Daisy, the youngerscullery maid, bobbing past with a pan of peeled potatoes and eyes like saucers. “I wish I could make them as even.”
“You shall,” Merry said, with cheer she manufactured on purpose. “It is only practice—and not eating half the paste.”
Daisy giggled and darted away. Merry kept her eyes upon the biscuits. It would have made no difference had she stuffed her ears with fruit cake. Gossip in a country house was as sure as the sunrise. Two laundry maids came in with a basket of clothes, talking in low, fast tones. Mrs. Dempsey told them to hush and they hushed, which only made it worse, for they began to whisper, which rang louder than normal voices. Merry’s ears centred on every word.
