Chapter 5
Joshua watched the flicker of disappointment cross Merry’s face.
Barnaby Tremaine, brushing at his fur collar with impatient fingers and laughing too loudly at his own misfortune, looked every inch the spoiled child denied a treat.
It had been a simple race, yet Tremaine must turn an honest tumble into insult.
The children’s cheers for Joshua had not been gloating.
They were the uncomplicated joy of small creatures who love a sure line and a true finish.
But Tremaine perceived mockery where there was none and answered it with a sneer thin enough to show the grain beneath the polish.
Joshua felt something within himself loosen by a degree.
He had planned to observe, inquire, and gather proofs and present them to Merry.
This afternoon taught him he need not. Tremaine was conducting his own campaign of ruin.
The question that lodged in Joshua’s mind was not whether Tremaine would unmask himself, but whether Merry would accept a mask she knew to be false for the petty respectability of a title and a carriage crest.
He did not think her mercenary. She had never looked so little like a girl who counted vanities as when she had knelt to tie a child’s boot-lace on the icy hill, but he knew, better than most, how years of being told one is almost good enough can wear grooves into judgement.
A cit’s daughter courted by a baron’s son received more counsel than she bargained for.
His brooding lasted only as long as the boys allowed.
Roger discovered that his hero could be made to shoulder a sledge and three children at once.
Edmund declared that any gentleman who had won a race must necessarily toss each of his admirers into a bank of snow in celebration, followed by a chorus of voices: “Me first, Uncle Joshua! Me first!” The honour of man did not, at present, require a philosophical answer about Merry’s marriage.
It required a man with strong arms and a willingness to be used.
“Very well,” he said, suppressing a laugh, “but you will mind the rules: one at a time, no ambuscades, and no tears when you are buried as deep as Buonaparte’s hopes.”
“Will there be drums?” Archie demanded, already scrambling into Joshua’s hold.
“There will be a drum made of your belly when you land,” Joshua returned, and with a swift pivot, he tossed the boy into a drift so soft and powdery that he went in with a whoop and emerged a moment later, snow-covered and triumphant.
“I want a go too!” cried Rose, too small for hurling but eager for some share of the ritual.
“For you,” Joshua said, hoisting her gently and setting her into a miniature puddle of snow as if she were the queen of a frosted island. She crowed and clapped mittened hands.
One by one he fulfilled the absurd ceremony—Roger, Edmund, Archie, Rose, and Jasper, the youngest, who, after much persuasion, consented to a very shallow drift and came up laughing with a face like a sugared bun.
It was then that Tremaine let slip a remark pitched to travel—one of those silken sentences meant to be overheard and to bite.
“I see the Captain has found his proper station,” he said to no one in particular, and yet to everyone.
“It is a comfort when men discover their talents lie in the nursery rather than in company.”
Joshua’s back had taken worse from a French sabre than from a gentleman’s insinuation, and he had no particular itch to answer. He set Rose down, adjusted her muffler, and said only, “One must rise to one’s level, Mr. Tremaine. I am just tall enough to catch children when they fall.”
There was a small sound—Merry’s breath, half-laugh, half-warning.
Tremaine coloured, not with shame but with resentment at having been denied his provocation.
“Come, Miss Roxton,” he said, offering an arm to escort her back toward the house as if he had cleared the way for her.
“You cannot prefer the wind to the fire.”
Merry hesitated—Joshua saw it, though it lasted no longer than a snowflake on a glove—and then, in the habit of a young lady trained to spare others embarrassment, she took the arm.
He spoke to her as one would speak to a person halfway decided upon, with an undertone Joshua recognized as ownership rehearsed to appear as courtesy.
Joshua gathered the sledges and the smaller troops and headed back.
By the time they reached the wide steps of Wychwood, all cheeks were apple-bright and all gloves ingloriously wet.
The door opened to a rush of warm air and the welcome scent of wood smoke and cloves.
Servants descended to take cloaks, and mothers applied that peculiar maternal inspection which scolds whilst hovering.
“Warm milk for the regiment,” Mr. Roxton declared, and Joshua wondered to himself if they always made so many army references, or were only doing so to humour him.
He allowed himself to be shepherded towards the great hearth, where the yule log radiated comfort from its red heart. The children installed themselves upon the rug, milk and slices of seed cake having been distributed to all.
Tremaine took up a position with studied negligence upon the far side of the hearth, Merry beside him in a chair before the fire.
Joshua, who had determined to cease such convoluted thinking for at least ten minutes, found thought settling to him as snow settles on a hedge.
He had told himself he could be content to remain unmarried—that the army required a man’s whole self, and that any other pretence was unfair to the woman persuaded to accept half.
He had believed it too, in the dogged way a soldier believes the weather is what it is.
Yet the last twenty-four hours had worked upon that certainty.
There had been the children’s adoration—artless, unbought.
There had been Merry’s laughter, not at him but with him.
There had been an odd sensation on the hill when a little hand had slipped into his and trusted, without argument, that he would set the owner of it down safe.
He had always supposed such things belonged to other men—men who did not sleep with their boots ready by the bed.
It came to him, disconcertingly, that he wanted them—not in a vague someday, not as a sop to the decorum of his elders, but as a thing he would miss if he allowed it to pass—a wife, children, noise, warmth, a home that was not transient.
The army was woven into him, but he was not dependent upon it.
He had set out to prove himself capable of making his own way, and now he had nothing left to prove.
Besides, most of their work was now situated in and about London.
He became aware he was staring at Merry.
Tremaine, animated by the prospect of an audience unwilling or unable to flee, was recounting some anecdote from the cock-fight the previous day, adjusting it to be nearly respectable, and was working at the impossible arithmetic of making brutality sound like taste.
Merry’s smile was courteous and cool. When Tremaine said, “Of course, a gentleman must keep up appearances. One cannot live altogether by country rules,” there was an emphasis upon gentleman that shaved the word like a blade.
And when he turned to Merry with, “You will find, too, the mistress of a great house cannot always do as she likes,” the warning sang through the sentence like a note below the melody.
“You will have nurses and nursemaids to help.”
Merry blushed.
Joshua’s fingers clenched and released against the curve of his mug. He had no right—and yet he felt it as a man feels a brand to the skin.
Merry refused to feel belittled. Whatever small sting his tone carried, he could not mean it.
Barnaby Tremaine was simply careless, too used to his own way to mind how his words landed.
He did not even realize how a look might sometimes cut like a blade.
It was only the manner of a man who had always been obeyed and admired.
He could not help it. That was what she told herself.
She made excuse after excuse, as though each one might shield her pride.
He meant nothing by it. He did not know how it sounded. He did not mean to belittle.
Her pride did not soften when he reached into his pocket and produced a small velvet case. He offered it with a flourish, bowing so low that several cousins turned their heads to watch.
“A token of the season,” he said.
Inside lay a bracelet of worked gold, the kind of ornament a lady might wear in London with perfect consequence.
Small stones glittered in the firelight, so fine and numerous they seemed far above the simple attentions of courtship.
Merry’s breath caught in her throat. Such a gift was not offered lightly.
Surely this meant more? Surely it was the first step toward a declaration?
She lifted her eyes, but Tremaine only smiled, watching her delight as if it were amusement to him. He said nothing more. He seemed content that she should gape at the splendour.
“It is beautiful,” she said, her voice steady though her thoughts tumbled, “but I cannot accept it.”
His brows rose. “Why not?”
“Because we are not betrothed. It would not be proper.”
“What, that?” He laughed and waved his hand as if she had mistaken a diamond for a daisy. “It is a trifle. Nothing more. Do not make it heavier than it is. Wear it, Merry. It becomes you.”
She let him fasten the clasp, although unease pricked at her like hidden thorns. The gold lay cool and heavy on her wrist. He admired it, his gaze fixed more on the bracelet than on her face, and she wondered if the gift were meant to adorn her or to display his own generosity.
Still, she excused him. Perhaps he thought the gift would please her family, a sign of his serious intentions. Perhaps he meant to speak later. Perhaps his silence was only hesitation. Surely he could not trifle with her so publicly?
After a little while, he asked her to walk him out. He must leave soon for dinner with his family, but he wished for a word first. She followed him into the hall, her pulse quick with expectation. This must be it. He would speak now.
The hall was hushed, hung with ivy and holly, the great ball of mistletoe swaying from its ribbon above them. Tremaine looked up at it and then down at her, his smile too knowing.
“You know the custom,” he said.
Her heart sank. “Is that all you brought me here to say?”
“Why not? A kiss beneath the mistletoe, and we might call it a merry Christmas indeed.” He chuckled.
She stood her ground. “You have never introduced me to your family. Not once have you invited me into their company. Why is that?”
He blinked, then recovered. “The occasion has not arisen. My father is busy with matters of estate. My mother is delicate. They are not in sufficient health for company.”
“You have been in the neighbourhood for weeks,” she pressed. “If you intended me to be a part of your future, would you not wish me to know those who will also be mine?”
He shifted uneasily. “There will be time for that. Why press them now? Families are often cautious, and it is best to wait until all is secure. You must trust me.”
The words poured smoothly, yet none of them satisfied. She felt the weight of the bracelet as if it were a shackle. She had asked for clarity and been given evasions. She had hoped for tenderness and been met with talk of caution.
“So this bracelet is nothing more than a trifle?” she asked.
He laughed, careless once more. “Of course. Why weigh it with meaning? It is a gift, nothing more. Wear it and think no further.”
He leaned toward her, his eyes glinting. “Come, Merry. Give me a kiss under the mistletoe, and let us end the day pleasantly.”
Before she could protest, his lips brushed hers.
She had imagined such a moment more times than she would ever admit, had thought it must feel like magic when it came at last. Instead there was nothing—no spark, no sweetness—only the pressure of lips that seemed to demand rather than cherish.
He tried to deepen the kiss, drawing closer, his hand tightening at her waist as if determined to claim more than she wished to give.
Merry stiffened. Disappointment swelled into alarm. She pushed against his chest, breaking free, her breath quick and sharp. “No, Mr. Tremaine. Not unless you are prepared to speak plainly.”
He laughed, though the sound rang hollow. “You are spirited, Merry. That is part of your charm.”
But she did not laugh. The kiss had left her cold. It had been nothing like the joy she had hoped, and everything like the hollow gift glittering on her wrist.
His smile faltered, then slid back into place. “Another time, then. My father waits, and I must be gone. Think kindly of me while I am absent.”
He bowed and left her beneath the mistletoe, his boots sharp against the stone.
When the door closed, the sprig swayed gently in the draught. Merry stood motionless. She unclasped the bracelet and turned it over in her hands. It glittered in the light, but it felt cold, false, a promise that meant nothing. She slipped it back into its case.
Her mind leaped between excuses and doubts.
Perhaps he was shy of declaring before his parents.
Perhaps he feared his father’s disapproval.
Perhaps he wished to be certain of her answer before involving his family.
She tried to believe it. Yet the memory of his smooth evasions, his eagerness for a kiss when he had given her no true claim upon him, refused to be silenced.
She thought of Captain Fielding. Never would he have pressed her with laughter and half-answers.
Never would he have called such a gift a trifle.
His bluntness might wound her pride, but at least she always knew where she stood with him.
There was a steadiness in him, a weight of truth that asked no adornment.
He might not think to bring a bracelet sparkling with stones, but if ever he placed anything in her hands, she believed it would be something she could trust.
The fire in the hall crackled, the voices of her family rose from the parlour, but Merry felt apart from it all. The glittering bracelet lay in its case in her pocket, and she thought how easily glitter might dazzle the eye while leaving the heart unsatisfied.
She closed the case and carried it upstairs. She could not yet say what her heart had decided, but she knew one thing with certainty. This gift did not feel like joy.