Free The Rocking Horse: A Regency Novella by Holly Newman Page B

the dignities."
    "I know, but I don't know why she believes an endless social round of parties and political speeches would make Tarkington a marques. The land and his people do. It does not matter if he is socially seen. It matters if he is seen by his daughter."
    A frown creased Lady Mary's pale brow. "I had not thought of it in that way. . . ."
    Jocelyn nodded, eager now to communicate her ideas. "Everyone comments on how he's changed since his wife's death, and they all say it as if the change has been for the worse."
    "But he's not the same, Jocelyn."
    "So, is that necessarily bad? What, precisely, is bad? I'd like to know. I'd like to understand. I need to understand! What I've seen is a man who is attentive to his estate and its people, a man who is also loving and attentive to his motherless daughter. Where is the bad in that? Is he mistaken? Is he supposed to place society before those things?"
    Lady Mary blinked at her friend, then a wide smile lit her face, chasing away any image of illness. "Jocelyn, you're in love with my brother!"
    Jocelyn bit her lip and looked down at her hands clasped tightly in her lap, a painful blush creeping up her neck and staining her cheeks. "For my sins, yes," she said softly.
    Then she looked up with a fierce, determined light in her eyes. "But do not say that to anyone. And I mean anyone! "
    "But why? Why not?" Lady Mary leaned forward to lay her hands over Jocelyn's. "I think it's wonderful. What do you mean?"
    "Charles Bayne."
    "Oh. Yes, a bit awkward, that." She sighed and leaned back against her pillows. "Are you still going to marry Charles?"
    "No. I don't know that I ever would have." Jocelyn rose from the bed and began to pace the room. "When I came to Bayneville, I was feeling uncomfortable about the entire matter. Nothing terribly wrong, just an odd itch. I first attributed it to a desire to leave London just for a spell. But it was more than that.— She shrugged. "I have discovered I do not want to live the same life my parents have. I don't enjoy the endless rounds of parties. They pall after a time."
    "And that's the life Charles leads and will continue, for it is in that arena he has chosen to make his fortune."
    "Yes. I believe in Mr. Bayne my parents see a kindred spirit and because of that first encouraged me to Mr. Bayne. I admit I like him, and now that I've time to consider, I realize I've felt comfortable with him because he reminded me of my parents. It was a safe, comfortable feeling. But I don't wish to be married to that feeling."
    "No, I can see that. What are you going to do?"
    "I don't know." She stopped pacing and turned to look at Lady Mary. A rueful smile touched her lips. "Strange, I never considered that one of the Christmas gifts I would receive this year was the knowledge of love. It's a beautiful gift, but I'm not certain what to do with it."
    "Perhaps it would be best if you stopped thinking and just let it be. Enjoy the feeling."
    "Live for today, for tomorrow it may rain?" Jocelyn asked cynically.
    "Something of that nature."
    "I don't know. . . ."
    "Jocelyn, I promise I will not say anything to Tarkington if you promise not to avoid him. You mentioned yesterday you'd like to help with his rocking horse. Why don't you do so? He doesn't have much longer to finish it, you know."
    "But I do not wish to throw myself at him."
    "Helping him is not the same as throwing yourself at him," Lady Mary said with a laugh. "Honestly, Jocelyn, I've never heard you so tentative before. Explore your feelings, your thoughts, and let the spirit of Christmas guide you."

     
    Let the spirit of Christmas guide you. . . . Jocelyn turned that phrase over in her mind half an hour later as she stood before the carpenter's workshop. Today there was not the odd sound of the lathe. It was quiet. She pushed the door open. In the center of the room, on a low bench spotlighted by the afternoon sun, stood an assembled rocking horse. Behind the horse, with a tan, paint-laden