Chapter 15
The final days of Christmas-tide were always quieter.
The music and laughter had thinned like the embers of the Yule fire, glowing still but softer now, more golden than bright.
The holly wreaths had begun to crisp at the edges, and the evergreen boughs above the doors gave off a drier, sharper scent.
In another day or two, the world would right itself from its brief season of magic and go on into the new year.
Joshua had always found this part of the season hardest—the moment between warmth and departure, when joy still lingered but farewell already waited at the door. This year, that ache was keener than before. He had begun to dread leaving Wychwood altogether.
Each morning since Merry’s rescue, the thought of London tugged at him less as a summons and more as a loss waiting to happen. The capital would seem dull and spiritless after this—after her.
He had not seen much of Merry since they’d returned that night.
She had been surrounded by the women of both families—their compassion as smothering as it was well meant.
Her mother and sister had scarcely let her out of their sight.
His mother had taken to sitting beside her during tea, watching her with that mixture of maternal pride and concern women reserve for daughters not their own.
Merry’s quietness had alarmed them all, though Joshua thought it no more than exhaustion—the kind of stillness that comes after fear, when one’s body remembers safety but one’s mind is slower to trust it.
The talk in the village, though, had been less kind. He had overheard it himself at the tavern that morning—two old farmers at the counter, a washerwoman by the door. All had opinions about Miss Roxton.
“Poor lass,” one had said. “She’s been led astray, she has.”
“She’s lucky the family has stood by her,” said another. “The outcome could have been much worse. That Tremaine fellow is a blackguard.”
Then, however, came the undertone Joshua had expected and dreaded—the whisper that travelled under every woman’s name once rumour caught hold.
“They say she was half taken in by him, though,” the washerwoman murmured. “It weren’t all force, I’ll wager.”
Joshua had left his ale untouched and gone out before he said something that would be remembered.
Those who had known Merry all her life—the tenants, the tradesmen, the servants—would stand by her, of that he was sure.
They knew her temper, her kindness, her impossible honesty.
Yet others would not. To some, the story would shrink to a single dangerous thread—a young lady who had looked too high and forgotten herself.
The same mouths that had praised her beauty would purse in disapproval now that she had become an item of gossip.
Joshua clenched his jaw at the thought. It was no fault of hers that she had been deceived; no sin that she had trusted charm over character. Tremaine’s villainy was his own, and his punishment just, but the world rarely divided guilt so cleanly.
He would marry her if she would have him.
The decision had shaped itself days ago, though he had not yet spoken it aloud.
He could give her protection and peace, and perhaps, in time, something like joy.
They dealt well together—that much he knew.
She met him without artifice or fear, and she made him laugh when nothing else could.
And yet…
He could not be certain she wanted him. If he asked now, would she believe he offered out of pity—or guilt?
She had suffered too much humiliation to bear either.
Better, perhaps, that he should return to London, let time smooth the edges of her ordeal, and then—when she had rebuilt her pride—come back.
He turned that thought over all morning, his fingers worrying the coin in his pocket, until he found himself, by sheer instinct, seeking out his mother.
He found his mother in the morning room, the pale winter light falling over her embroidery frame. She was making a pattern of ribbons and holly leaves intertwined—and humming under her breath. At his step, she looked up, as sharp-eyed and calm as ever.
“Joshua,” she said, setting down her work. “You have that look about you.”
He smiled faintly. “Do I look as miserable as I feel, then?”
“No, dear, you look worse,” she said forthrightly. “Now sit down and tell me what trouble you have made for yourself.”
He obeyed, though his hands remained restless on his knees. “Not trouble, precisely,” he said slowly, “but—Mother, what would you think if I told you I meant to offer for Merry?”
Mrs. Fielding’s needle paused in mid-air, gleaming like a captured drop of sunlight. “What would I think?” she repeated softly. “I think it has taken you long enough to realize you were meant for each other.”
“Mother—?”
“Oh, do not look so scandalized, Joshua. You have worn your heart upon your sleeve since Christmas Eve.”
He laughed, a little helplessly. “Quoting Othello? You think me in love, then?”
“I think you are in turmoil,” she said, “which is near enough to the same thing.”
He sobered. “If I could be sure it would not harm her further, I would ask her now, but I—perhaps I should wait. Give her time. Let the village gossip fade before—”
“Oh, nonsense.” Mrs Fielding waved her hand as if batting away an insect. “You gentlemen always imagine we are delicate. She will suffer more if you wait. I think she had realized Tremaine was unworthy before he ever put his hand on her arm.”
Joshua exhaled. He had known that, deep down. Merry had begun to suspect Tremaine’s attentions were not as honourable as she had wished. He’d seen it in the way her eyes had hardened with hurt even before the night of her abduction, when she had sent the letter to break the betrothal.
“She did know,” he said quietly. “But that does not mean her heart was untouched, nor that she has room in it for me.”
Mrs. Fielding looked at him for a long moment.
There was a glint of amusement in her gaze, but also something warmer—maternal pride, perhaps, or simply recognition.
“I know for a fact, my dear,” she said at last, “that Merry has always sought your attention. She only pestered you because you were too proud to notice her.”
“We were just children,” he said, though the words rang weakly even to his own ears.
His mother scoffed delicately. “Children know what they like, even if they cannot name it. You were the only one she ever followed into mischief. She thought the sun rose and set by your lead.”
He rubbed the back of his neck, embarrassed and oddly heartened. “Then why did she accept Tremaine?”
“Because she was out of options, my dear.” Mrs. Fielding’s tone softened. “A young woman of fortune may have many admirers and no freedom at all. She took the first man who seemed to offer her both admiration and escape. Do not judge her for it. In loneliness, we have all made foolish choices.”
Joshua sat back, remaining silent. Could it be true?
Had Merry truly looked to Tremaine out of desperation rather than affection?
That seemed an insult to her spirit, yet he could not entirely dismiss it.
He had seen that same restlessness in her—the yearning to belong somewhere, to be more than the spinster sister left behind when others married.
He remembered her laughter when skating, bright and infectious; then her calm at the farmhouse when she had been half-frozen and yet still tried to thank him before giving herself credit. A woman like that would not settle for pity; but love—for love she might take the risk.
Mrs. Fielding watched him, smiling a little. “You think too much,” she said. “A woman’s heart is not a riddle to be solved on a battlefield. Go to her. Tell her what you feel. If she refuses, at least you will have spoken the truth. It is better than silence.”
“Perhaps,” he said, though doubt still pricked. “But if she refuses, she will not only lose a suitor—she will lose a friend.”
“Joshua,” his mother said, reaching across the space to take his hand, “she will never lose that. Whatever else happens, she trusts you, and that is worth more than all the proposals in Christendom.”
He smiled faintly, though the ache in his chest remained.
That evening, as the last of the daylight faded into dusk, Joshua walked up and down the terrace outside the library.
From there, he could see the glow of the drawing room through the windows—the gentle chaos within.
The ladies sat by the fire, their laughter softer now, the rhythm of contentment returning.
Merry was there, between her sister and Mrs. Fielding, her hair loosely plaited in quiet defiance of decorum.
She looked tired, but not fragile. Her eyes were turned toward the hearth, and her smile—small, inward, half-formed—was one he’d never seen on her lips before.
Joshua stood watching until the cold crept through his gloves, then turned back toward the door.
Could his mother be right? Could it truly be that Merry’s heart had looked his way all this time, and he had been too blind to see it?
He remembered her voice on the road home, half-asleep against him. ‘I knew you would come.’
It had sounded like belief.
Now, as he entered the house, the warmth of the fire and the hum of laughter wrapping around him, he thought—perhaps—that belief was where love began.
Tomorrow, he would ask her. Not from pity, not from duty, but because she deserved to hear, from his own lips, what she had already proved in his heart: that she was the bravest, finest, and dearest woman he had ever known.
And if she said no—well, then he would carry her memory with him as a mark of honour, not loss of love.
He crossed to the drawing room door, and paused, just long enough to see her lift her head and glance his way, as if sensing him there.
Her eyes met his, and for the first time since that terrible night, she smiled fully—warm, unguarded and alive.
It was enough to make him hope.