Chapter 4 #2
He bowed his head. She was right, and he had no claims to prevent Miss Roxton making the mistake. Yet he could not shake the memory of Merry’s uncertain smile in the candlelit nave.
“I will try,” he said at last.
His mother reached across, touched his hand briefly, and then, with a softness that startled him, said, “It is not only her welfare that troubles you, is it?”
Joshua looked into the fire and did not answer.
Merry awoke to the sound of bells. Not the solemn peal of church or the clamour of alarms, but the light chiming of the children who had discovered the basket of hand-bells used in the choir.
They were running up and down the passage outside her chamber, jangling away with triumph, and she could not find it in her heart to scold them for Christmas had dawned, and the whole house was alive with it.
She rose quickly, for the air was sharp and the windows etched with frost. Pulling a shawl about her shoulders, she leaned over the sill.
The garden below lay hushed and white, each shrub capped in snow, each branch glittering in the pale sun.
Footprints marked the path where some adventurous child had already stolen out. It was a morning made for joy.
Yet Merry’s thoughts did not rise with the bells.
Instead they drifted back to the night before—Mr. Tremaine’s late arrival, careless and a little too loud.
She had told herself at the time it was nothing.
Gentlemen of fashion amused themselves in many ways—cock-fights were hardly unheard of—but on Christmas Eve?
And then to boast of it, when the children had only just sung of peace and goodwill?
She pressed her brow to the cold pane. His smile had been as polished as ever, but there had been something in his eyes, a brightness not entirely natural.
She knew enough of men’s indulgences to guess at it.
A little wine might be excused, but she could not shake the image of him entering God’s house with such a swagger.
Worse than her unease was the knowledge that Captain Fielding had noticed too. She had caught the flicker in his gaze, the tightening of his jaw…and though she resented his presumption, she could not deny a small, unwelcome relief that he had seen what she had seen.
She brought a pensive finger to her lip. Was the feeling more to do with the fact that she wanted to prove him wrong or that it enhanced his case?
A knock sounded, and Penelope entered, cheeks already flushed from the morning’s bustle. “Merry, you must come down. The little ones are wild, and Mama insists we help keep order.” Merry managed a laugh and tied her ribbons. “Very well. Give me but a moment.”
When Penelope had gone, she looked once more into the snow-bright garden.
She thought of Barnaby’s bow, of the compliments which glided so easily from his tongue.
Then she thought of Joshua—his grave steadiness, the way he had led the children’s snowball fight without once making himself its hero.
One dazzled; the other anchored. She ought to know which she preferred, but it was not as though the Captain was offering himself.
No, he was merely trying to prove the other unworthy.
With a sigh, she drew her cloak about her and left the room. Christmas morning waited, with all its noise and laughter, but somewhere beneath it all lingered a question she could not yet answer: Had she been wrong about Barnaby Tremaine? If so, then what path should she follow?
Christmas breakfast at Wychwood Hall was less a meal than a carnival.
Children included in everything at Wychwood, wriggled like eels upon their benches, sneaked sugar-plums having made them excitable, and the adults bore it all with the patience of those long used to disorder.
Merry sat between two of her nephews, making certain spoons remained in bowls and napkins were not flung into the fire.
But rather than gifts, the morning’s pleasure was carols. After the dishes had been cleared by the servants, everyone gathered in the music-room, and Penelope took her seat at the pianoforte.
The children crowded around, holding sheets of paper they scarcely needed, for they sang more with vigour than with tune.
“I Saw Three Ships,” began in respectable harmony, though Roger insisted on being the page boy with such vigour that he sang over half the others.
Then came ‘The Holly and the Ivy,’ sweet and lilting, followed by ‘God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen’, in which the gentlemen were anything but restful, booming the chorus until the chandeliers shook.
Merry sang with the others, her voice rising more from affection than a skill she knew she did not possess. She glanced once at Captain Fielding, who did not sing loudly but carried the line firmly as one would expect from him. The children were drawn to him despite his notable lack of softness.
Archie all but climbed into his lap in order to catch the words, and shy Rose pressed close to his side. Merry could not help but notice how naturally he bore it—no show, no fuss, simply the quiet strength of a man who was obeyed.
After the carols came games. Forfeits were played with much shrieking—Penelope lost hers and was commanded to recite a verse while balancing a plum pudding upon her head, which she did with such good humour that the younger ones nearly expired from laughter.
Snapdragon was attempted, raisins plucked from blue flames with shrieks of triumph and failure, though more brandy was spilled than consumed with the fruit.
And through it all, Joshua Fielding was the children’s unquestioned captain—directing, encouraging, never impatient.
Merry caught herself smiling too often. She reminded herself sternly that Barnaby Tremaine was equally attentive in his way.
The day brightened as the sun climbed, and soon the call went up for sledging. The snow lay crisp along the sloping meadow behind the house, untouched but for a fox’s neat tracks. The older boys had already dragged out wooden sledges from the barn and polished their runners with hopeful hands.
“Come, Merry!” Roger seized her cloak. “You promised to ride with us!”
She had promised no such thing, but her protests were drowned in cheers. Archie and Edmund immediately dashed away to fetch cloaks and boots, and in a merry procession they trooped to the hill.
The first runs were chaos, with the children piling two and three upon a sledge and shrieking all the way down until they tumbled in heaps at the bottom.
Joshua tested a runner, adjusted a rope, then gave Roger’s sledge a proper push, sending him flying true down the hill.
Cheers erupted. Soon, every child insisted upon Captain Fielding’s hand at their start, declaring him luck itself.
Merry watched, laughing, as he obliged them all.
He carried sledges back up when smaller arms flagged, dusted snow from flushed cheeks, and never once appeared weary of the clamour.
Her heart did an odd, rebellious flutter.
She remembered his words from the night before—‘Soldiers do not always return’—and thought what a pity it would have been if he had not returned.
They had nearly worn themselves out with runs when another figure appeared at the edge of the meadow. Barnaby Tremaine, splendid as ever in a fur-collared coat, his boots far too fine for trudging snow, strode down as though arriving at a ball rather than a slope of noisy children.
“Miss Roxton!” he called, raising his hat. “You make the snow look pale.”
The compliment, practised as it was, brought a flush to her cheeks—for she disliked having every ear within hearing of it. She managed a smile. “Mr. Tremaine, you are late to the sport.”
“I should not be late at all if I had known there was sport to be had.” His eyes lingered upon her face, then shifted toward Joshua, who had just launched Edmund down the hill. Something sharpened in his expression. “Ah. The soldier has turned nursemaid.”
Joshua heard, for he turned, though his face betrayed no flicker of offence. “It is easier than managing recruits,” he said simply, and bent to adjust another sledge.
Barnaby laughed, though it rang a little too loud. “Then let us see if soldiering teaches a man to keep pace on the hill. Shall we race, Captain?”
The children squealed at the idea, keen for a contest. Merry hesitated. Something in Barnaby’s tone unsettled her, but to object would only heighten the tension. Joshua rose, snow clinging to his coat, and inclined his head. “If you wish it.”
Two sledges were brought up and placed side by side. Roger was appointed starter and puffed out his chest with the importance of the role. Merry stood back with the others, her heart curiously tight.
“Ready!” Roger cried, raising his mittened hand. “Go!”
Down the hill they flew—Joshua steady, his sledge carving straight and swift.
Barnaby leaned forward far too eagerly, his finer boots slipping as he pushed off.
For a moment, they ran neck and neck, snow spraying in glittering arcs, but Joshua held his line while Barnaby’s sledge wobbled, then struck a hidden lump and swerved.
With a cry of frustration, he tumbled sideways into a drift, while Joshua flew cleanly to the bottom, snow rising in applause.
Cheers erupted from the children. Roger and Edmund whooped. Joshua rose, brushing snow from his coat, and only laughed when the boys crowded around him as though he had won a tournament.
Barnaby emerged from the drift, his cravat askew, his face dark with anger. “A child’s trick hill,” he muttered, too loudly. “It proves nothing.”
“Oh, but it proves everything!” Roger declared with wicked delight. “Uncle Joshua won fair, and you fell!”
Barnaby’s eyes flashed; for an instant, Merry feared he might scold the boy. Instead he forced a laugh that was strained and thin. “Well, perhaps the soldier can manage toys, after all.”
The words fell flat. The children frowned and looked away, and Merry felt a hot flush rise to her cheeks—not of pleasure, but of shame for him. A gentleman should lose a race with grace; Barnaby had lost with petulance.
Joshua merely lifted Roger onto his shoulders and said mildly, “The hill has chosen its champion.” The children roared approval, and Barnaby’s laugh grew harsher.
“A childish remark, as one might expect.”
He held out his arm to Merry and they followed along behind the crowd of children clamouring about Captain Fielding on the return to the house.