Page 47 of A Merry Christmas
It was enough to make him hope.
And hope, Joshua thought, was as good a beginning as any.
Alas,they had reached Twelfth Night. The greenery drooped a little lower, and the yule log, so triumphantly set on Christmas Day, was a faint glow of embers. Merriment still reigned, yet in every laugh there lurked a little ache for the morrow. Tomorrow meant trunks and wraps and farewells. It meant Joshua would be returning to London, and Merry held more sadness in her heart over that than she did for the foolishness she had imagined to exist with Barnaby.
Loss took a clearer shape now. It was not a wound that smarted with shame. It was an empty space that had discovered its size only when a certain gentleman’s presence had filled it, and now threatened to be vacant again.
The great table shone with the last splendour of the season. Candles threw clear light over polished silver and bright crystal. The children occupied their saloon with a riot of puddings and giggles. Merry slid into her place and only then saw that fate, or two mothers, had organized the company to perfection. Joshua sat at her right hand.
He glanced down, humour alive in his eyes. “Our mothers are meddling again,” he remarked in a voice pitched for her alone.
Merry adopted an air of patient resignation. “May I remind you it is inevitable. Does it trouble you?”
“Not at all,” he said, the corner of his mouth lifting. “I need all the help I can contrive.”
Before she could ask what he meant, his brother, Aaron, demanded a history of some army story from Portugal, and Joshua turned obligingly to tell it. Merry took a sip of wine and watched the easy animation with which he complied. He made attention feel like warmth.
The courses moved forward with all their ceremonious cheer. Somewhere between a dish of salmon dressed with capers and a roast of beef in Hollandaise, Merry said quietly, “I had an apology from Lord Bruton earlier.”
Joshua stilled. “Did you?”
“He begged pardon without artifice. He accepted the full blame and declared himself at my disposal should I ever need anything in his power to give. The line that caught me was the last. ‘I will not ask your forgiveness for my son. I ask it for myself, who saw the path he was taking and did not succeed in turning him from it.’”
Joshua considered her for a breath. “How does it make you feel?”
“I am beset by sadness,” she said. “Sadness that a gentleman like him has such an undeserving son. I believe he meant to do better and could not.”
His gaze softened. “Your graciousness does you credit.”
“I do not feel gracious,” she said, setting down her fork. “I feel tired of being angry at Tremaine, and more so at myself. Anger is rather a heavy burden to carry.”
He paused, and in that single pause she felt a conversation grow between them that no one else could hear. It lay there in the quiet as if it had always been waiting and had at last found voice.
They were not left to it for long. Twelfth Night refused to be solemn. The Fieldings welcomed several village families as the dishes were cleared, the room filling at once with the good noise of neighbours. Mr. and Mrs. Finch came from the mill; old Mr. Parkes, whohad tuned the church spinet since the reign of the last vicar, arrived; and also came the vicar and his wife themselves. Scarves were unwound. Cloaks were whisked away. Boots were stamped clean in the passage. The company widened like a circle of lantern light in a winter lane.
The first set began as soon as the footmen had rolled up the carpets. Mr. Roxton took Mrs. Finch’s arm with a gallantry that suited him. Mr. Lennox bowed to Mrs. Fielding. Joshua made a point of claiming little Rose and took her through the figures with such kindness that the child glowed pink and bold by the close. Someone had brought a fiddle. Someone else had a lute. The music was jovial.
Merry stood a little apart when she could. On the fringes of laughter one hears notes that do not belong to the tune. A remark, thrown away by a woman who wished to be known for saying what others would not, was levied directly into her ear.
“Well, Miss Roxton,” the woman murmured behind her fan, “you will just have to remain a spinster now, I dare say. A safe choice for everyone, do you not agree, for who would take you now?”
Merry turned her head very slightly, enough to meet the woman’s gaze without gifting it consequence. “A safe choice is sometimes the best,” she said. “There are worse fates than being one’s own responsibility.”
The woman coloured and laughed as if she had meant only a jest. Merry let it pass. If that was the worst folks were saying about her, then she would endure. Joshua was on the other side of the room, speaking to the vicar, and she would not let the evening sour while she could still watch him and memorize every line of his face.
When the second country dance was called, he crossed to her as if the space belonged to his stride. “May I have this dance?” he asked, at once both formal and simple.
“You may,” she said, and placed her hand in his.
They took their places. The set was lively, full of turning and pursuit and quick crossings. Merry found her feet obedient again, her breathing keeping time with the measures. Joshua’s hand was sure when he took hers, assured when he let it go. Once or twice their eyesmet and slid away; once or twice they held. She was astonished at the calm in her own chest. This ought to have been a moment for tremors and desperate questions. Instead it felt like standing where she was meant to be.
When the dance ended, a draught rose as someone opened the French doors to the terrace. Cold air washed the crowded room. Merry, warm and a little flushed, lifted her face to the breath of winter and smiled. Joshua saw that smile and, without ceremony, offered his arm.
“Would you care for some fresh air?” he asked.
“Yes, I should like that,” she answered.
They stepped out into a world made silver by frost. The terrace stones were dry but cold. Beyond, the lawn lay smooth and pale under a sky pricked with hard stars. Their breath smoked in the lamplight. Behind them came the faint strum of the fiddler tuning for another set. For a moment they stood with the night laid open like a page before them.
