Chapter 3 #2
“Miss Merry,” said Mrs. Fielding, who, with a small silver knife and the inexhaustible calm of a queen, carried a plate of ginger cake, “if you will only take this tray to the music-room, and save us a stampede until after the decorations are finished, I should be most grateful.”
“I am all obedience,” Merry replied, which made Mrs. Fielding laugh and say something about miracles at Christmas-tide. “As it happens, I was on my way there to put up some decorations.”
The music-room had always been her favourite room at Wychwood.
Its tall eastern windows were white at the corners now where the snow made lace against the panes, and the pianoforte shone with pampered gloss.
Merry set down the tray and took a long breath.
The scene in the hall—the heat, the hum, the comfortable confusion—had warmed her body and disordered her mind.
She did not sit. If she sat she would think, and she had not yet decided whether thought was an ally. Instead, she set about laying a short garland of holly around the pianoforte. A little droop at the centre, she mused, two sprigs thrust just so and a narrow ribbon to keep the whole from drooping.
She was engaged in tying the ribbon when Penelope—Mrs. Lennox for some years now—appeared in the doorway with a skein of green twine upon her arm.
“There you are. I told Mama you had not deserted, but she would have it you were setting up a rival wassail in here.”
“If I were,” Merry said, “it should be better spiced than Papa’s.”
“Blasphemy,” Penelope returned, smiling. “Do you want help?”
“I want five more pairs of hands that understand what I mean without my saying it. You will do admirably.” She held out the ribbon’s end. “Only here…a little tighter, please.”
Penelope obeyed, then studied her sister’s face as one studies a sentence for the second meaning it obstinately conceals. “You have been spending much time with Captain Fielding.”
“You make it sound as if I had been committing a faux pas or that it was not entirely the machinations of our mother and Mrs. Fielding.”
“You always look just a little pleased with yourself after a skirmish,” Penelope said.
“Skirmish?” Merry echoed, affecting ignorance, though the word pricked her conscience. She had gone into the fray with her head up and her temper in arms and had come out with neither entirely victorious.
Penelope secured the bow. “He is handsome in the fair way, and he makes me think of iron nails correctly hammered—useful, strong, not to be done without. I suppose that is from being in the army.”
“I dare say,” Merry said, as if the whole matter were of no consequence at all. “He believes Mr. Tremaine to be a rogue.”
“I remember Mr. Tremaine as a boy,” Penelope said, her tone the sort people used about the weather—acknowledging what cannot be altered by opinions. “He was very fine at cricket and very poor at truth.”
“Perhaps he has mended his ways,” Merry said, her voice brisk because it cost her something to say it.
“Yes. Perhaps,” Penelope allowed. “Do not take offence, Sister. I am not your enemy.”
“My heart is not yet set for or against him.”
“You never set your heart against anything but waste.”
Merry laughed in spite of herself and kissed her sister’s cheek. “That is why I shall not waste this ginger cake. I shall sample it now.”
She did, by way of making peace with both Captain Fielding and Mr. Tremaine—for ginger cake was equal in its consolations—and carried the rest back to the hall before there was no more to share.
The house had progressed in her absence from a bustle to a hum.
The smallest children had been packed off to the nursery for naps.
The older ones had arranged themselves into a society for the betterment of fun and exclaimed at the sight of the ginger cake.
Her father, triumphant over his bowl, ladled steaming cups of wassail as if he had invented both drink and ladle.
Meanwhile, near the hearth—Merry saw it as one sees rather than looks—Captain Fielding stood and said little while attending to everything.
The children, having exhausted all reasonable amusements indoors, were rapidly turning mutinous. Their mothers, who knew the signs as admirals know storm-clouds, exchanged glances over their tea-cups. The storm would break soon, one way or another.
It was Roger, of course, who declared open rebellion. “There is snow enough for armies!” he cried, nose pressed to the frosted pane. “We must go outside! Uncle Joshua will lead us!”
A chorus rose—pleas, shouts, the rustle of cloaks fetched without permission. Even the younger ones stamped their feet in a parody of marching. Merry, who had been attempting to keep Rose from toppling an inkstand, could not help laughing at the sudden unanimity.
Mrs. Fielding sighed, though her eyes softened. “Very well, only wrap up warmly. And Joshua—” She raised her voice. “—do keep them from burying themselves.”
Captain Fielding, who had just returned a tray of cups to the sideboard, inclined his head with soldierly obedience, though the faint smile upon his mouth betrayed a man not entirely dismayed by the charge.
Within minutes, boots clattered across flagstones, mufflers were wound, and the hall door burst open.
A rush of cold air swept in, along with shrieks of delight as the children poured into the garden, white and glittering in its new coat of snow.
Merry followed, tugging her cloak closer.
Someone must keep order among the troops, and she did not trust the boys’ notions of fairness.
The first volley came from Roger, who packed a ball with all the seriousness of a cannon-shot and let fly at Edmund. It struck him squarely, and war was declared. Children scattered to form battalions. Snow flew, shrieks rang, and the air filled with laughter.
Merry bent quickly, scooped a neat ball, and dispatched it at her nephew, Edmund, who had dared to call her a bystander. The missile landed true, and the child’s astonishment was reward enough. “Aunt Merry is with us!” he bellowed, rallying a squadron of five.
“Traitor!” cried another, and suddenly she was very much part of the skirmish.
Snow found her cheek and she gasped. Then she laughed and retaliated in kind. Her gloves were quickly wet through, but she did not care. Years dropped away until she was once more the hoyden of fourteen, pelting any Fielding brother who crossed her path.
“Private Roxton,” said a voice behind her, deep and unhurried, “your flank is entirely exposed.”
She turned too late—another snowball struck her shoulder. Captain Fielding stood at ease, a ready sphere of snow in his hand, his expression that infuriating mixture of amusement and calm.
“You might have warned me sooner!” she accused, brushing her cloak.
“I was observing your tactics. Bravery in abundance, but no cover. You will be overrun.”
“Then assist me, sir, if you are so superior.”
He stooped, shaped his projectile with efficient precision, and loosed it in one clean motion.
It sailed straight to its mark—Roger, once again too bold—sending the boy sprawling into a drift, roaring with laughter.
The children cheered their new adversary, and Merry found herself absurdly pleased, though she pretended otherwise.
“You have merely made yourself their target,” she informed him.
“So be it. A soldier expects no less.” He crouched to build a makeshift barrier to hide behind, eyes glinting in the winter light.
Together they held the line, side by side. Merry’s laughter came fast as the cold bit at her cheeks and hair. Once, as she bent for more snow, their gloved hands brushed, and she felt, ridiculously, as if the air had warmed for that single instant.
The battle raged until stamina failed the youngest troops and peace was declared in the form of an armistice: hot milk within for all who surrendered.
Flushed and tired, the children trooped back toward the house.
Merry lingered, her breath clouding the air, watching the twilight gather across the white lawn.
Captain Fielding remained beside her, his coat dusted in powder. He looked not like the distant soldier of last night’s dinner, but like a man entirely present—cheeks ruddy, eyes bright, his smile unguarded. “You fight well, Miss Roxton.”
“You were not poor yourself, Captain. Though I do suspect you were holding back.”
He gave a half-shrug, the ghost of laughter in his eyes. “I have seen enough battles. It is a pleasure to have one without casualties.”
Their gazes met—just a moment too long for comfort. Merry felt her heart stir in that inconvenient way she was learning to dread. She looked away, brushing snow from her cloak. “Come, before they drink all the milk and leave us none.”
They walked back together, the truce between them as fragile as the snow beneath their boots, and just as uncertain how long it would last.