Winter Wonderland by Elizabeth; Mansfield

lifted his paper up between them. If you need help ma’am , he told her in his mind, I’m the last man in the world who’ll offer it to you .
    He knew he was not being gentlemanly, but she deserved no politeness from him. Miss Miranda Pardew was repugnant to him. When he was nineteen she’d treated him with merciless contempt, and even if she was now past her bloom and looking dowdy and plain, he didn’t care. He remembered reading somewhere that one might forgive injuries but no one ever forgave contempt. How true. How very true.
    He turned to the window and noticed, to his chagrin, that the snow had begun to fall again. And if this were not enough to raise his ire, he had to listen to Augustus Woodley’s revolting attempts to gain the interest of Miss Pardew. The fellow kept up a barrage of asinine comments which did nothing to endear him to the woman he was trying to impress. “My, but you have tiny feet,” he’d remark. Or, “Those are very fine-looking gloves. What do you call their color?”
    These ploys were greeted with only a stony silence.
    â€œIt’s getting a lot colder, ma’am,” Woodley remarked several times. “Let me give you my muffler.” Once he actually tried to wind it about her neck. She had to fend him off.
    Barnaby tried not to pay attention to the goings-on. But the lady’s restraint surprised him. The girl he’d met at the ball would certainly not have kept her sharp tongue in check. She’d known quite well, back then, how to put a man in his place. Indeed, she seemed much changed in many ways. The slate-blue Kerseymere gown she was now wearing, with its prim white collar, straight skirt and simple gimp-cord trim, was a far cry from the clinging, enticing, soft green silk she’d worn the night of the ball. And her bonnet sported no feathers or ornamentation—it was modest in height and brim and was tied under her chin with the plainest of bows. She neither looked, dressed nor behaved like a belle of the ton . He couldn’t help wondering if, perhaps, some sort of tragedy had befallen her.
    While he was thus studying her, he noticed that the obnoxiously persistent Augustus Woodley had moved his leg to rest against Miss Pardew’s thigh. The lady edged away. A few moments later, Mr. Woodley moved again. Miss Pardew edged away again. When the dunderpate moved a third time, and the lady, wedged tightly between him and the armrest, had no place to move, Barnaby had had enough. With an exclamation of disgust, he tossed his newspaper down, jumped to his feet and grabbed the fellow by the collar of his coat. “You don’t seem comfortable, Woodley,” he said, lifting the fellow bodily and throwing him over to the opposite seat. “I think you’ll be happier sitting beside me .” And he re-seated himself, picked up the newspaper and opened it to his place.
    â€œOh, I say !” Woodley cried in outrage when he regained his breath. “What do you think you’re about?”
    â€œI know what I’m about. And I know what you’re about. So take my advice, fellow. Stay put and hold your tongue. We’ve had enough of your buffoonery.”
    Woodley opened his mouth to retort, caught a glimpse of Barnaby’s glower that had intimidated so many others, reddened and retreated to his corner.
    The lady threw Barnaby a look of melting gratitude. “Thank you, sir,” she said softly, the corners of her lips turning up in a suggestion of a smile.
    Barnaby did not smile back. He merely fixed his glower on her and, with cold deliberation, lifted up the newspaper between them. He could deliver a set-down, too.
    How the lady took his set-down he didn’t know, for he kept his eyes fixed on his newspaper. The journey proceeded in absolute silence. The only sounds were those of the carriage wheels, the horses’ hooves and the whistling wind.
    That was why, later that afternoon, on a