Chapter 11 #2
“Nothing,” Joshua said with a faint smile. “Only thinking about our dinner.” And Merry.
There was no peace to be had at Wychwood, Merry discovered.
Not in the hum of the passages, not in the bright chatter of the nursery, not in the murmuring of card tables or the cheerful tyranny of the drawing room fire.
Everywhere she turned, the house seemed too full of noise, too bright with laughter that mocked her own thoughts.
Even the tick of the great clock above the stair had become an accusation, counting each foolish moment she had wasted on a man who had never deserved her regard.
She fled into the side garden, pretending that she only wished to breathe the air.
The yews stood solemnly, collecting the thin snow upon their dark boughs.
Smoke drifted from the chimneys, and the air smelled of damp earth and frost. Merry stood beside the sundial—useless in a winter noon—and told herself that in five minutes she would feel composed.
The five minutes came and went, however, and her heart continued its painful rebellion—though was it her heart or her pride that was wounded?
There were no answers to be found when the wound was so fresh.
At last, she went to find her mother.
Mrs. Roxton was sitting in the morning room with Mrs. Fielding, both of them industriously engaged in not doing very much at all.
A basket of mending lay untouched between them, for the conversation was of neighbours and not of stockings.
The moment Merry entered, her mother’s eyes lifted in instinctive welcome.
“My dear,” she said, noting the cast of her daughter’s cheeks, “you have been out without your proper hat again.”
“I am going home,” Merry said steadily. “Roxton House is quieter, and I wish to look in on the lambs.”
Her mother gave her a long, measuring look—one that saw far more than Merry intended to show—and nodded. “You may go, if you promise to dine with us tonight. Your father will send for you himself if you are late.”
Mrs. Fielding nodded approval. Clearly, they had heard the gossip.
Merry curtsied, kissed their cheeks, and escaped before either could offer more sympathy. Within half an hour, a groom had been called, her mare saddled, and she was riding through the pale winter lanes toward home.
The road between Wychwood and the Roxton estate wound through frost-edged fields, the hedgerows bare but sparkling in the thin light.
The sky promised more snow before evening.
Merry rode swiftly, welcoming the sharp air against her face.
When she reached her own gate, the familiar sight of the home farm steadied her—its smaller, plainer windows, the honest smoke from the chimney, the low murmur of ewes in the fold.
Dawkins appeared at the pen with his habitual grave smile.
“You be early for the New Year, Miss Merry,” he said. “Two ewes have lambed, and another’s thinking of it. I’d wager she is but waiting to make certain we be watching.”
Merry dismounted and passed him the reins. “I am come to reason with her, then. No creature in Gloucestershire has yet held out against me.”
Dawkins chuckled and led her toward the lambing pens.
The warm musky scent of straw and lamb enveloped her the instant she stepped inside the old barn.
The ewes murmured softly, their great dark eyes shining in the lamplight.
There was a peace here—earthy, practical, forgiving—that soothed her as nothing else could.
The animals cared not that she had been betrayed and would never be a fine lady.
“That one is struggling to suckle,” Dawkins remarked.
Without being told, Merry began to help.
She knelt beside the smallest ewe, coaxing the feeble lamb to drink, her hands firm and practised.
The tiny creature fumbled at first, then found its strength and began to suckle greedily.
Merry’s shoulders relaxed. For the first time all morning, she was able to smile.
“There, now,” she murmured. “You see? You only needed patience and persuasion.”
When the lamb had finished, she settled against the timber wall, cradling the warm bundle in her lap. The steadiness of its heartbeat against her arm was an answer to something she had not dared to voice. And yet, even here, the ache remained.
She could no longer deny what must be done.
Setting the lamb carefully in the straw, she rose, brushed the straw from her skirt, crossed to the house and went into the small parlour to write. The pen was blunt, the ink cold, but her hand was steady as she wrote:
Sir,
You asked me to keep a secret. I will not.
I cannot be engaged to a man who will not acknowledge me in daylight, who gives one name to me and another to the world.
You have been lavish with words, but I require honour, not eloquence.
There is to be no betrothal, secret or otherwise.
You will not call upon my father. You will not call upon me.
Seek your fortune where you and your father have chosen.
I wish you as much honesty as you can find, and as much kindness as you can learn.
MR
She read it once, sealed it and directed it. Dawkins sent young Tom to deliver it to the Crown with instructions to forward it to Lord Bruton’s house. Tom, wise enough not to ask questions, rode off at once with the air of a boy entrusted with state secrets.
The letter gone, Merry returned to the sheep. There was always more work—water to draw, straw to turn, lamps to trim. She lost herself in it gladly, but as the hours passed and the sky turned pearly grey, the first measure of peace she had gained began to slip away. She knew she must return.
The lamb she had been tending stirred in the straw beside her. She took up the bottle once more and settled against the wall to feed it. The little creature’s trust was complete and unthinking, which made her own shame all the sharper.
“How wise you are,” she whispered. “You want only warmth and food and company. You do not mistake pretty words for goodness.”
Footsteps sounded on the stone outside. She assumed it was Dawkins until Joshua Fielding stood in the lamplight before her.
He had hung his hat on a nail; damp hair clung to his temples. He looked, as ever, too tall for comfort and too composed for pity.
“Miss Roxton,” he said quietly. “Your mother has asked me to fetch you home—if you wished to come.”
Merry blinked at him, uncertain whether to laugh or cry. “That sounds precisely like her,” she said.
Joshua smiled faintly. “It does.”
He came no nearer, which was kind of him. The lamb stirred, and Merry resumed feeding it. He watched in silence, his hands in his coat pockets. There was something profoundly steady in his presence; even the animals seemed to sense it.
“I passed Tom on the road,” he said after a while. “He had a letter—and a look that suggested I ought not to ask what was in it.”
Merry nodded. “Then you know.”
He inclined his head, not pressing her.
“I have let Mr. Tremaine know,” she said at last. “There will be no more courting.” Merry hesitated. How she wished she could tell him that Tremaine had proposed, but that would only increase her shame.
His eyes met hers with quiet understanding. “You did rightly.”
She wanted to thank him, but the words tangled themselves and would not be said. It was far too easy to speak honestly with him. “I suppose it ought to make me feel better,” she said, “but it does not. I thought myself shrewd enough to judge a man’s worth. I was wrong.”
Joshua shook his head. “You were not wrong to believe in goodness. You were wrong only to believe it might be found in him.”
Merry looked down at the lamb, blinking hard. “It is humiliating, all the same. I prided myself on not being the sort of girl to be taken in by a handsome face. I even pitied those who were.”
He crouched beside her then, resting one arm on his knee.
“You are not the first to be deceived by a charming rogue, and you will not be the last. I have seen officers gamble away their fortunes for a horse with a glossy coat and bad legs. There is no shame in mistaking surface for substance when the polish is well done.”
Despite herself, she laughed. The lamb finished drinking and nosed sleepily against Joshua’s sleeve. Merry smiled in spite of herself. “You see? Even this little creature trusts you.”
“She is an excellent judge of character,” he said gravely.
They laughed softly together, and the warmth between them was not only that of the lamplight.
When she had composed herself, she said, “Tell me truthfully, Captain—did you already know?”
He hesitated only a moment. “My superior wrote to me. He knows Lord Bruton. The family has brought a young lady down from London—a Miss Dunning, daughter to a wealthy man. Her father hesitates over the match because of Tremaine’s debts and reputation but Bruton is determined upon it.”
“So,” Merry said quietly, “the gossip was true.”
“It was,” Joshua said. “His debts are…considerable.”
She nodded, absorbing it without flinching. “Then I was only ever a convenience. A country diversion while he waited for better prospects.”
Joshua’s expression softened. “You were never a convenience. The pressure from his father is considerable.”
Her throat ached. “You are too generous.”
“Only honest,” he said simply.
The wind whistled faintly through the chinks in the boards. The lamb wriggled between them, warm and alive.
When she finally rose, Joshua offered his hand—not in gallantry, but as a steadying presence. She took it.
“Will you come to Wychwood?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said, after a pause. “I have done what I must here.”
By the time they reached Wychwood, dusk had thickened into early night. The windows shone golden through the mist, and warmth met them before they crossed the threshold. Mrs. Roxton received her daughter without question, merely a kiss upon her forehead.
The household was in lively disorder, preparing for the New Year’s Eve celebration.
Unlike many households, the children were to be allowed up past their usual bedtime.
Thrilled, they ran in and out of the hall, paper crowns askew, clutching wooden trumpets that produced more enthusiasm than tune. The grown-ups pretended not to mind.
As was tradition, the families gathered around the great hearth.
Cheese toast was made on long forks, the gentlemen declaring themselves experts while the women exchanged amused glances.
The children sang nursery rhymes far too loudly and forgot half the words.
Laughter filled the house, softening even the ache in Merry’s chest.
Joshua sat near the fire, helping Roger—his arm still bound from the mishap skating—to turn the fork without spilling the toast into the fire. Merry watched him for a long moment, struck by how easily he fit among them, how naturally the children leaned toward him, how quietly he seemed to belong.
When midnight neared, the room hushed. The clock’s slow toll filled the silence, and as the final stroke faded, a cheer rose up—ragged, joyful, human. Glasses clinked.
“To health!” cried Mr. Roxton.
“To prosperity!” said Mr. Fielding.
“To happiness,” added Mrs. Fielding softly.
“And to kindness,” said Mrs. Roxton, her eyes on her daughter.
Merry raised her glass but said nothing. To courage, she thought, but she kept the word to herself.
When she looked up, Joshua’s eyes were on her. He smiled—quietly, without presumption—and inclined his head.
“May the new year bring you joy, Miss Roxton,” he said.
“Likewise, Captain Fielding,” she answered.
And though the ache in her heart was not gone, something in her steadied. She had faced what she must. She had chosen honesty over illusion—and perhaps, she thought, as laughter rose again around them, courage was its own beginning.