CHAPTER 3
It was after noon when they turned the cart back into the Wychwood drive. The house stood bright against the pale sky, smoke curling from its chimneys in slow, grey plumes. The bay cob tossed its head, as though knowing the comforts that awaited within. Joshua handed the reins to a groom, swung lightly to the ground, and went to offer his hand to Merry.
She placed her gloved fingers in his, steadying herself as she stepped down. The brief weight of her hand against his palm carried more meaning than he liked. For one thing, it was absurd to notice that her fingers were light, that her balance was sure, and that she looked up at him with eyes half narrowed against the wind and laughing at some private thought. For another, he did not know what to do with the flicker of warmth that such small observations awoke in him. He was a seasoned soldier, not a callow youth to be taking flights of fancy.
The morning had passed with disconcerting ease—ease, that is, until Tremaine had inserted himself into it, as though the man had been summoned to spoil all Joshua had begun to recall with pleasure. He had not minded the hampers, or even Merry’s cheerfulness at each cottage door. Indeed, there had been a deep contentment in seeing herreceived so fondly by everyone, from the blacksmith to the widow at the end of the lane. But Tremaine’s sudden appearance had cast a shadow over all. It had reminded him, as though he needed reminding, that she was not the tousle-headed girl who had once pestered him with snowballs, but a woman of one-and-twenty whose future might—without interference—be bound to a man Joshua could never stomach.
She thanked him with formal politeness when her feet touched the gravel, but there was the faintest curve at her mouth that did not feel entirely polite. He could not decide whether it mocked him, or herself, or Tremaine, or the whole absurdity of the morning. Perhaps it was all of those at once.
They carried the empty hampers around toward the kitchen door, and Joshua found himself thinking—not for the first time—that Merry Roxton was dangerous. Not in the manner of cannon or cavalry, which one could meet with drilled composure, but dangerous in the quieter way of a sudden thaw when one expected ice: beautiful, welcome even, and all the more treacherous for being unexpected.
Snow had begun to fall, soft flakes drifting across the courtyard as if to soften the day’s sharpness. The sound of laughter drew them onward, and as they rounded the corner they saw a troop of Fielding and Roxton family members gathered in the side garden, cloaks and bonnets pulled close, baskets in hand. The women had resolved to hunt for holly and mistletoe, while the men set themselves to the ancient task of bringing in a yule log large enough to burn until Twelfth Night.
“Uncle Joshua!” cried Roger, Simon’s eldest, already red-cheeked from running. “You must come and help! We’ve found one as big as a cannon!”
“I hope it does not explode,” Joshua replied, ruffling the boy’s hair. He glanced at Merry, who was stooping to adjust Archie’s cloak, her face soft with patience. The sight warmed him against the wind.
Soon enough, he was out with the men, trampling through the copse at the edge of the park. There lay a fallen oak, half buried in snow, which the younger ones declared perfect for the yule log. Ropeswere fetched, shoulders bent, and amid much slipping, grunting, and laughter, they heaved the enormous piece of timber onto a makeshift sledge. Joshua found himself laughing with them—real laughter, not the careful amusement he used at table or in town. He had forgotten the satisfaction of common effort, of labour that ended in merriment.
At last they dragged the log to where the ladies admired it, their baskets already brimming with glossy holly and greens. Someone produced a spray of mistletoe tied with a scarlet ribbon, and the children capered about with it, holding it over unsuspecting heads until kisses were claimed amid much mock outrage.
Joshua found himself beside Merry again, both of them catching their breath after the haul. Snow had caught in the dark auburn of her hair, melting in tiny drops. She shook it back with a laugh. “You see? I told you Christmas work was not for the faint-hearted.”
“You did not tell me it involved hauling artillery across a field,” he returned, and she laughed again, quick and clear, before falling into step with him as they followed the log back to the great hall.
The yule log was set with ceremony in the hearth, the children excited as they watched. Garlands were hung about the mantels, and the room filled with the scent of pine and burning oak. Wine and spiced cakes were passed around, and soon the company dispersed into small knots of conversation, content to enjoy the warmth while the snow thickened beyond the windows.
Joshua had thought to retreat to a corner, but Merry was there before him, carrying a plate of ginger cake. She offered it with the air of one who knows she cannot be refused. “You worked as hard as any,” she said. “You have earned a slice.”
He accepted, and for a moment they stood together, the noise of family around them, the fire crackling at their backs.
Merry took a modest portion herself and then, without looking at him, asked, “Do you mean to remain long in Gloucestershire, Captain?”
“Until Twelfth Night,” he said. “Long enough to enjoy the season, I hope.”
“Long enough,” she murmured, “to prove me wrong.”
He did not answer.
It was she who broke the silence. “I suppose you are still determined to dislike Mr. Tremaine?”
Joshua did not reply at once. He studied the shifting firelight instead. “I am not determined,” he said finally, “to see ill where there is none, but until I have cause to believe him changed, I cannot like him for your intended.”
“People do change,” she said. Her tone was light, but there was an edge beneath. “He is not the boy you knew. None of us are who we were five years ago.”
Joshua glanced at her then, and saw in the tilt of her chin that she was daring him to contradict her. “That is true enough,” he conceded. “But some men polish themselves like silver until they gleam in the candlelight, and some forge themselves like steel. I will leave it to you to determine what is what.”
Her lips pressed together in annoyance, though her eyes glimmered with something more complicated. “And what are you, Captain Fielding? Steel?”
He half smiled. “Rusted, perhaps—and not half so well dressed as Tremaine.”
That drew a reluctant laugh from her, though she shook her head as if he were impossible.
Later, when the others had scattered—some to the nursery, some to the card tables—they found themselves once again near the fire, Merry idly twisting a sprig of ivy between her fingers. The noise of the house faded to a murmur. She spoke suddenly, her eyes not on him but on the greenery in her hand.
“Do you have a sweetheart, Captain Fielding?”
The question startled him more than he cared to show. He looked at her steadily, though he felt his heartbeat quicken. “No. The life I have led is not friendly to such luxuries.”
