Chapter 9
Joshua went in search of Merry with the idea of finding a moment alone.
The house had entered that bustling restlessness which followed breakfast at Christmas-tide, when plans were made or discarded with cheer.
He meant to ask for ten minutes of her time, intending to give no speeches and no warnings, only reassurance.
The corridor to the green saloon lay empty when he reached it. The winter light fell in a thin square across the carpet. He took two steps and then halted. Voices, low and urgent, came from the room.
Joshua knew at once whose voices they were. Barnaby Tremaine’s tones were smooth and persuasive.
“Will you walk with me for two minutes where the door is in sight? I will not steal you past a chaperon. I wish only to say one thing without every servant listening.”
Joshua did not move. It was not virtue that kept him still.
It was the battlefield instinct which tells a man to see exactly what is happening before he charges into it.
He took a breath and let it out silently.
If he turned now, his boots would ring on the boards and his retreat would be louder than a declaration.
“Merry,” Tremaine went on, bringing his voice down to a whisper.
“You must know I admire you above every lady I have ever met. Your sense, your spirit, your beauty. I have been clumsy and the village has eyes that enlarge everything. I will not pretend to be better than I am, but I can promise to try to be worthy of you. Will you do me the honour—”
Joshua’s heart lurched. He could not see Merry past the angle of the alcove, only the movement of Tremaine’s dark coat and the tilt of his head as he bent closer to press the advantage he had made for himself.
It felt like watching a comrade go down in the smoke twelve paces away, too far to reach in time.
What had his silver-forked tongue said to make her forgive his behaviour?
Joshua told himself there was still a world of difference between being asked and being won.
He told himself she might refuse. He told himself anything that would keep him where he stood and not send him blundering forward into a scene and make everything worse.
Tremaine continued on and Joshua could not make out the words. Then he heard Merry speak.
Her voice was clear, though low. “Why must it be secret?”
“Because I know my father,” he said, with a little grimace.
“He is a man who will ask to see your portion first. I will not have him insulting you with figures when I can oblige him to remember he has a heart. Give me three days to manage him and then I will stand you before him and make him thank me for the honour.”
There was a pause that bit into Joshua’s chest like frost. When Merry spoke again, the single syllable seemed to strike the wainscotting and return to him in a shape larger than itself.
“Yes.”
He closed his eyes. The word gave him no right to move or intervene.
He pressed his palm hard against the cool wood of the panelling, as if to remind his body it still had a wall to lean on.
When he opened his eyes he saw, reflected in the glass opposite, Tremaine’s figure bow with triumph held in check and Merry’s face lifted, pale and composed.
He could not read her eyes in that thin reflection.
He did not need to. He knew the look she wore when she had done a difficult thing as if it were nothing.
He stepped back soundlessly until he reached a bend in the corridor and then walked swiftly but without evident haste.
The house swallowed him. Voices came and went.
Some child laughed with the kind of sudden explosive joy that told of victory at a game.
Joshua kept his pace even and his face free of the tumult within.
He went to the library for solace, but it offered none. He stood with both hands upon the back of a chair until his breathing settled. Then he let the first wild rush of anger and despair pass through him and out again.
He could not think of Merry as lost—not yet.
It was not too late until the vows were said before God and the register signed.
A secret engagement was not a sacrament.
It was a thread that could be cut by truth if truth were revealed properly.
He had no wish to triumph. He had every wish that she be spared a life that would grind her spirit to dust while people admired her title and her jewels.
He sat down soberly and put his head in his hands, not because he was beaten, but because he needed to act quickly yet with caution.
If he blundered now, if he came to her with facts that sounded as though he was merely intent on proving himself right, he would deserve the contempt she would hand him—and the marriage he could not prevent.
How miserable would she be, tied to what lay beneath that handsome coat and those practised compliments?
Merry, with her love of mornings and lambing pens and the clean honesty of a day’s work, would be crushed. The best of her would either grow bitter or hide itself. She would still smile. She would still be herself in company. But the private person—her spirit would be crushed.
Abruptly, he stood up and paced the length of the Turkish carpet.
Should he approach her? Yes—but how? She had given her word.
He would not ask her to break it lightly or make of himself the villain in the story.
All at once, he must be near enough to catch her if she stumbled and far enough to let her choose the path.
It was a hard business, but hard business was what he knew.
Very well. He would go on gathering the truth quietly to have ready the moment she reached for it. He would make himself the safest person to come to when she needed someone. She must know he wanted her happiness more than any victory. Later he would examine why he felt so intensely.
The library door opened a crack. His mother’s face appeared in the gap, her eyes as quick as a bird’s. She read him in one glance.
“Well?” she said. “I saw her return to the drawing room looking shaken.”
“She has given her word to keep a secret,” he answered, which told his mother all she needed.
“For how long?”
“He asked for three days.”
Mrs. Fielding entered and shut the door softly behind her. “Then we shall be particularly occupied for three days.”
“Doing what, precisely?”
“You are to continue exactly as you have been, giving her your attentions,” she said. “A woman does not change her mind in something like this without good cause and an alternative.”
“Am I to stand silent with damning proof that would only cause her future to be misery?”
“No, of course not.” His mother frowned.
“If she asks me for particulars—?”
“You will give them, briefly and without relish,” his mother said. “You will not make a sermon of them. ’Twould be best for her to discover on her own.”
He nodded. “But there is very little time.”
“Then you had best busy yourself in showing her the better alternative.”
She turned and left before he could argue that he was not searching for a wife.
The next morning dawned sharp and bright, the snow crisping underfoot as the household made its way to church.
Every church morning was much the same—bells chiming, children’s laughter echoing down the lane, breath misting like smoke in the cold—but that morning felt different to Merry.
Her heart was uncertain, her thoughts too crowded.
This was not the way a newly betrothed young lady should feel.
She had scarcely slept. The memory of Barnaby’s low, persuasive voice—keep it secret, my love, only for a few days—had tangled itself with dreams until she woke half convinced she had betrayed herself.
Now, walking between her mother and Penelope, she pressed her muff close and told herself sternly that she should be happy.
She was promised. She ought to glow with contentment.
Yet contentment refused to come.
The bells of St. Mary’s rang out across the valley, calling the faithful like silver hounds on a scent.
The church stood golden and ancient against the blue morning sky, its steeple piercing the pale clouds.
Villagers hurried along the lane in their Sunday best—bonnets trimmed with holly and boys in patched coats, grinning through the cold.
It had always filled Merry with a kind of humble joy.
Today it felt like stepping onto a stage.
Inside, the warmth of candles and bodies filled the air with that familiar mixture of beeswax and spice.
The Roxtons took their customary pew near the front.
The Fieldings gathered, a picture of good-natured disorder, with Joshua helping the children divest themselves of scarves and cloaks.
His hair caught the candlelight. For one breath, Merry forgot to worry.
And then the stir began.
The Bruton carriage had arrived. The vicar himself straightened in the vestry doorway as though expecting royalty. The congregation turned slightly, heads tilting like flowers following the sun.
Lord and Lady Bruton entered first—imposing, wrapped in furs, heads held high. Their countenances were the perfect mixture of piety and condescension. Their pew, naturally, stood nearest the altar, draped with cushions embroidered with the family crest.
But it was not Lord or Lady Bruton who drew the whispered interest of the congregation. It was those who came behind.
Barnaby Tremaine led a young lady by the arm—a lady Merry knew at once, though she had prayed she might be mistaken. The same beauty from the sleigh, her bonnet pale blue to match the ribbons trailing from her muff. The girl’s laughter, low and musical, floated across the quiet church like perfume.
Merry’s breathing stopped.