Page 134 of All I Want for Christmas… Is You
Remnants of the night's frost glistened on the north face of rocks sheltered from the sun's warmth by the tangled briar from summer's berries, clumps of pine, and evergreen shrubbery. Winter wrens flew up before them to settle on branches overhead. Their feathers puffed out against the cold, and they cocked their heads from side to side, their bright dark eyes watching them pass. Once they saw two male wrens fight over a large red berry, so preoccupied with their war they scarcely had time to fly out of the horse's way. Lady Anne laughed at their antics. Her laughter eased the tightness in Jocelyn's chest, and she laughed at the child's delight.
When they crossed a narrow wooden bridge over the river, Jocelyn instinctively clung to the side of the wagon, fearful they'd come to mischief on so narrow a structure. She disliked bridges. They always made her nervous. Once on the other side, the marquess stopped the wagon and told her she could relax her grip. She meekly apologized, color rising in her cheeks.
"Do not apologize, Miss Maybrey. It is not necessary. That was a narrow bridge, and to one unfamiliar with it or without control of the reins, crossing can seem daunting. I myself do not like others to drive me across. I prefer to be in control on such a structure."
"Thank you, my lord, but I confess I do not like bridges at all. An inexplicable failing of mine, I'm afraid," she said with a shaky laugh and offhanded gesture.
"Miss Maybrey! I wish I had known! There was no need for us to go to the wood across the river for greenery. I merely thought to take you to this wood because of its high vantage point. In my vanity, I wished you to see Bayneville from the top of the hill ahead that borders the wood."
"Please, my lord, do not overly concern yourself. I'm fine."
"But will you be fine when I confess there is no way back to Bayneville lest we cross the river again?"
"I gathered that my lord," she said dryly. "Rivers this wide and deep don't vanish in the next mile or so."
"True, but I can at least ensure that your crossing not be disturbing in quite that manner."
Jocelyn laughed. "Nothing can make a bridge less disturbing."
The marquess smiled as he lifted the reins and urged the estate horse on. "We'll see, Miss Maybrey."
Tarkington's concern touched Jocelyn. It was relaxing in a manner she'd never experienced.
"Are we almost there, Papa? Are we almost there?"
The marquess laughed. "Almost, poppet. Beyond that line of spruce is a grove of holly. We'll start there."
Together the three of them cut and gathered the holly, then boxwood and other greenery until the back of their wagon was full.
"What about the mis'toe, Papa?" Lady Anne asked as Tarkington once more boosted her onto the wagon seat.
"We have to go farther for that," he said, picking up the wagon reins.
"I know what mis'toe is for," Lady Anne confided to Jocelyn.
"Oh, you do?" Jocelyn said to the dimpling child.
Lady Anne nodded, then giggled behind her gloved hand. "It's for kissing!"
"My goodness! Are you sure?"
"Don't stand under the mis'toe or you'll get kissed!"
"Well, I shall certainly take your advice. Imagine being kissed!" she said. Then her eye caught the Marquess's tense gaze. All humor left her lips. Unconsciously she licked them. The Marquess's eyes narrowed briefly. In confusion, Jocelyn blushed and looked away. She was attracted to this man, dangerously attracted. How foolish! A tingling rose in her chest, catching in her throat and zinging throughout her body in a form of panic she'd never felt before. She was about to be betrothed to his cousin—though perhaps not. Mrs. Bayne would likely do her best to squelch the match. She considered that consequence and knew it wasn't the cause of her panic. She knew the worst last night, though only now would she put the feeling to thought. If she married Charles Bayne, her life would continue in the fashion she'd grown up with. Unfortunately, she was beginning to realize she did not want that life for herself: an endless round of parties, of late nights and late risings, of maintaining appearances, of being somewhere just to be seen there, of listening to gossip, of laughing at some ridiculous joke, or clucking one's tongue at another's misfortune. That was her parents' world, and they thrived in it. She now knew that as a child when she'd observed them—from a distance, the way society deemed children were meant to—she had enjoyed that distance, that vicarious participation, far more than she'd ever enjoyed its actuality for herself.
This she enjoyed, she thought, looking around her at the pearl-gray skies and the shades of green and brown in the landscape. She enjoyed the slow sway of the wagon as it rumbled down the dirt lane and the birds that flew before them, disgruntled at the intrusion into their feeding grounds. She enjoyed the time to play the harpsichord and the time to sit by a fire or a window to merely think. She realized she even enjoyed the silence of the night without the calls of the night watchman or the rattle of carriages along the pavement, or the drunken bawdy songs of the town bucks as they made their way home after a night carousing on the town.
She was not made as her parents were, and that identification of the uncomfortable itch on her soul eased some of the turmoil in her heart. She smiled.
"Miss Maybrey?"
"I beg your pardon, my lord. I was woolgathering, I'm afraid."
"From a very odd lot of sheep."
"Pardon?"
"Your face, Miss Maybrey. It has run a gamut of emotions. Every time I glanced your way, a different emotion was there. I was so fascinated by the changes I could scarcely keep my attention on driving the cart."
