Christmas at Merrow Park had always been, by Rowan’s own admission, a half-hearted affair.
His father had treated it as an inconvenience—a pause in hunting and cards. His mother had, in later years, retreated to her rooms, emerging only for obligatory church and the opening of presents sent by distant relations.
Rowan’s memories of childhood Christmasses were mostly of overboiled pudding and undercooked sermons.
This year, Livia was determined that would change.
“We are not importing London’s absurdities,” she said, flipping through a book of traditions that Miss Hartley had thrust upon her. “There will be no twelve-foot trees in the drawing room. No ballerinas hired to dance on tabletops. No live stag brought in as a conversation piece.”
Rowan blinked. “Is that… a thing?”
“Yes,” she said darkly. “At Lady Vernham’s cousin’s house three years ago. The poor creature fouled the Aubusson carpet and impaled a footman.”
He winced. “Very well. No stags. What *do* you propose?”
“Greenery,” she said. “From our own woods. Candles. Modest gifts. Food. Singing. And”—her eyes gleamed—“a Yule log for the tenants’ bonfire.”
“They will like that,” he said, smiling. “So will Dobbins’s boy. He can set fire to something without being scolded.”
“Within limits,” she said. “I am not raising arsonists.”
She oversaw the gathering of holly and ivy; Rowan, under protest, was hauled into the woods to choose an appropriate log. Mrs. Talbot muttered about work but secretly enjoyed planning a menu that did not center on boiled beef.
By Christmas Eve, the house looked… not grand, not ostentatious, but… welcoming.
Garlands twined along banisters. Small sprigs of mistletoe hung in corners, prompting much shrieking and strategic avoidance among the maids and footmen. A simple crèche carved by a local craftsman sat on a side table in the parlor—a tiny wooden Mary looking more like Mrs. Dobbins than any ethereal Madonna.
Livia, now visibly round under her gown, moved more slowly but with determination.
“Sit,” Rowan would say.
“Supervise,” Mrs. Talbot would say.
“Interfere,” Miss Hartley would say.
Livia did a little of all three.
On Christmas morning, the tenants gathered in the yard for the log lighting.
Snow fell in soft, lazy flakes. The air bit at noses and fingers; the breath of the assembled crowd puffed white.
Dobbins’s boy—Thomas—stood front and center, practically vibrating.
“Now?” he whispered to Livia. “Can I now?”
She smiled down at him. “When His Grace says so.”
Rowan, beside her, cleared his throat.
“My friends,” he said. “We gather to set fire to a perfectly good piece of wood and call it tradition.”
Laughter rippled.
“May this log,” he went on, “burn long and bright. May it chase out cold and shadows. May it light our way, at least as far as the bottom of the ale barrel.”
More laughter.
“Thomas,” he said, bending slightly. “Do the honors.”
Thomas, solemn now, took the taper from Mrs. Talbot’s hand. His small fingers trembled, but he held it steady as he touched it to the kindling piled under the great log.
Flame caught.
Cheer rose.
Livia felt the heat on her face, the cold at her back, the solid presence of Rowan at her side.
She laid a hand over the gentle swell of her abdomen, hidden under wool.
This child, if it lived, would not be born into a house of silence and brittle duty.
It would be born into a place where people laughed and shouted and burned logs in the snow.
The thought eased something in her.
After the bonfire, after church, after a dinner where Mrs. Talbot nearly burst with pride over a particularly successful goose, gifts were exchanged.
They had kept it simple.
Rowan gave Miss Hartley a new set of quills and ink of a quality that made her eyes shine. Whitlow received a sturdy new ledger that he cradled like a child. Mrs. Talbot got a shawl that made her grumble and then, later, preen.
For Livia, Rowan had been puzzlingly secretive.
“Are you smuggling in a pony?” she asked suspiciously as he led her into the library after supper.
“I would not fit a pony in the library,” he protested. “I tried. It objected.”
“Rowan,” she said.
He grinned.
“Very well,” he said. “Sit there. Close your eyes.”
She obeyed with bad grace.
She heard rustling, a thump, a muffled curse.
“Do not injure yourself,” she said. “I am not attending *two* invalids.”
“Quiet,” he said. “Or I will tell Miss Hartley you seek Greek grammars for Christmas.”
She huffed.
“Open,” he said.
She did.
On the low table before her sat a wooden box, about the size of a large book, with a hinged lid. It was plain but well-made, the wood polished to a soft glow.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Open,” he repeated.
She lifted the lid.
Inside, nestled in blue velvet, lay a small brass contraption—gears, a dial, a set of numbered wheels. Beside it, neatly stacked, were several small slips of paper and a tiny, fine-pointed pen.
She stared.
“A… device,” she said brilliantly.
“A calculating machine,” he said. “Whitlow’s cousin in London is a clever man. He has been tinkering with these for years. I saw one in his office and thought of you.”
“A… machine,” she repeated, still staring. “For…?”
“Simple sums,” he said. “Adding. Subtracting. You set the numbers here, turn this, and it gives you the total. No more tallying with chalk and fingers.”
She reached out, almost reverently, and touched the cool metal.
“Rowan,” she breathed. “You… *bought* me a… toy.”
He winced. “Do you hate it?”
“Hate it?” she said. “I… adore it.”
Joy flared in his face.
“I worried,” he said, “that it might feel like an insult. As if I were saying, ‘Here, dull your mind with machinery.’”
“On the contrary,” she said. “It acknowledges that my mind is… worth tools. That you do not fear it. That you… wish to ease its work.”
He relaxed.
“That was the idea,” he said. “Also, I am selfish. If it speeds your sums, I receive results sooner.”
She laughed.
“You have found,” she said, “the perfect gift for a woman who loves numbers.”
She lifted the machine from its nest, surprised by the weight.
“How does it work?” she asked, eyes bright.
He smiled, heart squeezing at the sight.
“Whitlow attempted to explain,” he said. “I nodded a great deal. I believe you set the first number here…”
They bent together over the little device, her fingers deftly manipulating wheels, his clumsier ones following.
It clicked, whirred, produced a small, satisfying clunk as the dial moved.
Livia laughed in delight.
“Marvelous,” she said. “Utterly useless for complex accounts, but marvelous.”
Rowan groaned. “I knew it. Too simple.”
“Not useless,” she amended, softening as she saw his crestfallen expression. “For household accounts, for tenants’ smaller sums—it will be most helpful. And more than that…” She stroked the polished brass. “It is… a recognition. Of who I am. Of what I love. That is more valuable than any jewel.”
He studied her.
“You truly prefer this to rubies?” he asked, bemused.
“Yes,” she said without hesitation.
He shook his head, half-amused, half-awed.
“I continue,” he said, “to not understand you.”
“And yet,” she said, setting the machine carefully back, “you choose me. Daily.”
“Yes,” he said softly. “I do.”
She kissed him then, in the quiet library, with snow at the windows and the faint buzz of the household beyond.
His hands slid gingerly along her sides, careful not to press too hard.
“You will not break me,” she murmured against his mouth.
“I might,” he said. “With stupidity. Or fear.”
“Those are not contagious,” she said. “I am already afflicted.”
He laughed, low.
His hand, almost of its own accord, curved over the gentle swell of her belly.
“Hello,” he murmured, half to the bump, half to her. “This is your ridiculous father. Please do not kick too hard. Your mother already wants to murder me most days.”
She snorted.
“You are talking to my stomach,” she said.
“Yes,” he said. “It feels… necessary.”
She laid her own hand over his.
“If you begin reciting barley yields to it, I am leaving you,” she said.
He smiled.
“No,” he said. “I will tell… them… about ships. And ledgers. And how their mother once walked into a print shop and bought a caricature of herself without flinching.”
She felt a sudden, odd flutter beneath their hands.
She went still.
“Rowan,” she whispered.
He froze.
“Did you…?” he began.
“I… think…” Her heart hammered. “Perhaps… that was… nothing. Gas. Food. But…”
They waited.
There.
A faint, unmistakable movement, like the brush of butterfly wings from the inside.
Her breath left her.
She laughed, a shaky, astonished sound.
“Hello,” she whispered, her hand pressing lightly.
Rowan’s eyes shone, wide with wonder.
“My God,” he breathed. “There is… *someone*… in there.”
“Yes,” she said, tears spilling over. “Apparently, there is.”
He whispered a word that would have made the vicar faint, then kissed her—her mouth, her damp cheeks, her forehead, her fingers.
“We made that,” he said, almost dazed.
“Yes,” she said. “We did.”
The calculating machine sat on the table, its wheels still, its numbers unchanged.
For the first time in her life, Livia looked at an unbalanced ledger—not of money, but of love and fear and hope—and did not reach for a quill.
She reached for him.
And for the life between them.
The numbers, she suspected, would never quite add up.
But for once, she did not mind.
They had, in their odd, hard-won way, come into profit.
Not of coin.
Of something else entirely.
A future.
Shared.
Messy.
Dangerous.
Worth every risk.
***