Marian's Christmas Wish (11 page)

Marian drew in a breath and opened her mouth to speak,
but he beat her to it. “But not this year. Come, Marian. Your brother will have
given us up for dead.”

She did not argue. He draped her cloak about her,
resting his hands for the smallest moment on her shoulders and then giving them
a pat.

Sam showed them to the door. “Until tomorrow, then, my
lord?”

Marian brightened. “Oh, Sam, you will visit us
tomorrow? You will not let Sir William steal your march?”

The vicar put a finger to his lips. “Not a word,
Marian. Especially not to Ariadne. When, sir?” he said to Lord Ingraham.

“Midafternoon. That should be ample time. Courage, Mr.
Beddoe.”

The vicar bowed and came up with a grin on his face. “The
same to you, my lord.”

They were out the door before the earl remembered. “I
almost forgot,” he said as he dug into his pocket and pulled up a handful of
coins. “For the choir.”

The vicar took the coins and looked long and hard at
the amount of them. “My lord, they are not a very good choir.”

Ingraham waved away his protestations. “Mr. Beddoe,
merely remember that all things are possible on Christmas. Or so Marian would
dictate.”

And you could even be home for Christmas, my lord,
Marian thought as he took her hand and hurried down the steps into Picton’s
main thoroughfare.

The village was deep in sleep. Many lights flickered in
the butcher shop as they walked by, crunching the snow underfoot.

The doctor turned the corner by the shop and pulled up
his horse. “Care for a ride, my lord? Miss Marian?” he asked as he tipped his
hat to Marian. “We can crowd together.” The doctor nodded. “With your
condescension, my lord.”

Ingraham shook his head. “It’s a lovely night, sir.
Were you successful?”

The doctor nodded and spoke to Marian. “The butcher has
a daughter at long last, my dear. Good Christmas to you both.”

They walked into the quiet of the December night.
Marian longed to ask her escort what had transpired in the vicar’s study, but
an unaccountable shyness settled over her and she did not. She hurried to keep
up with Lord Ingraham, who seemed to be thinking of things other than his
stride. The wind ruffled a skiff of snow in front of them and an owl hooted in
the spinney nearby.

Ingraham stopped. “Oh, I do not mean to hurry so fast.”

“Hold still a moment, then,” Marian said, out of
breath, “and I will wind your muffler tighter. You must not neglect that. And
you must not forget to put on that salve before you retire for the night.”

“Yes, your worship,” he said, and bent down while she
wound the scarf tighter. He looked right into her eyes. “Aren’t you just
desperate to know what is going on?”

She stared right back. “Of course I am! You know I am,
and I think you are perfectly dreadful not to tell me.”

“Well, I will not.” He softened his words with a hand
on her shoulder as he started her into motion again. “I will only be silent
because it is wisest. But no matter what happens tomorrow, my dear Marian, do
trust me.”

She let herself be pushed along. Midnight in a snowy
field was hardly the time for mutiny. “Very well.” A dreadful thought occurred
to her, and she stood stock-still, her eyes wide. “Gil, you do not think that
Sir William took advantage of our absence to propose?”

“I think it highly likely. He never was one to waste
much time.”

Tears stung her eyes.

Without a word, he wiped her eyes with the corner of
his muffler. “Now trust me, brat,” he said softly. “The vicar and I had a good
talk. I wished him godspeed in his wooing and he wished me the same.”

Marian clapped her hands, instantly diverted. “Gilbert
Ingraham! And are we to wish you happy, too? I do wonder that you can bear to
spend Christmas in Covenden Hall.” She put her hands on his chest and gave him
a little push. “It is a wonder to me that you could bear to be away from your
lady love. I do not understand men at all.”

He started her moving again. “And what would you do in
my case. Miss Wynswich-who-knows-everything?”

“I would fly to her side and not rest until the matter
was settled to my complete satisfaction.”

He chuckled and she blushed, grateful for the darkness.

“That is, if I were ever to fall in love and marry. And
I have already told you, I plan to do neither.”

“I seem to recall your mentioning that.”

Covenden Hall was dark when they tramped up the front
driveway. Marian opened the door a crack. There was a single candle burning on
the hall table. She tiptoed in behind Ingraham. She closed the door quietly
behind her.

“Where are you?” he whispered, and touched her arm.

He is so close I could just reach up and kiss him,
Marian thought, and then wondered why she had such a silly thought.

He cleared his throat. “Marian, I
...
I want to . . .”

She never knew what he wanted to do. A hand snaked out
of the darkness and grabbed her ankle. She shrieked and reached for Lord
Ingraham, and heard a crack of laughter that made her lips come together in a
firm line. She flailed out in the gloom of the hall, grabbed a handful of hair,
and hung on. “Alistair! You wretch! Let go!”

She heard a smother of laughter, this one from
Ingraham, who groped to a chair and sat down, holding his sides.

Alistair released his grip on her ankle and Marian sat
down suddenly on the floor, which only increased the strangled sounds coming
from the chair.

Alistair pried her fingers from his hair and got to his
feet, leaping nimbly out of reach. He touched a candle to the one on the hall
table and held it over his sister. “I told Percy I would wait up for you,” he
explained, his tone virtuous, his eyes lively. He held out his hand. “Truce?”
He pulled Marian to her feet.

“Alistair, you are worse than a Turk,” hissed Marian.
She turned on Lord Ingraham. “And you! How can you sit there laughing! Did you
never have any pestilential brothers?”

“If it is any consolation, I am not laughing at you,
but myself for thinking . . . What I was thinking? And no, I never had
brothers, pestilential or otherwise, and I wish I had,” he said, as unrepentant
as Alistair.

Marian came closer to him. “You were about to say something
when Alistair so rudely interrupted.”

“It was nothing that won’t keep a little while, Marian,”
he said, and then adroitly turned the subject. “And you, sir, tell us of this
evening.”

Alistair sat in the other chair. “That bag of wind—beg
pardon, my lord, but you know he is!—that bag of wind proposed tonight. Oh,
Mare, you should have been there. He got down on one knee and you could have
heard his stays creak from here to Lyme Regis. He sounded like a frigate in a
high wind.”

After a moment of thoughtful silence, Lord Ingraham
spoke. “And did you witness this?”

“Through the keyhole, my lord,” responded Alistair. “I
thought Mare would want the details.”

Marian rubbed her arms and tugged her cloak tighter
about her. “It is cold. And Ariadne?”

“She thanked him quite sweetly for the honor he did
her, and said she would think about it.”

Marian poked her brother. “Move over.” She sat down on
the chair with him. “And tomorrow Mama will preach and preach, and Ariadne will
acquiesce. Depend upon it.” She appealed to Ingraham. “What am I to do, sir? I
believe this family will drive me distracted. I scheme and plot for everyone to
be happy, and they just won’t be!”

“Are you through?” said Ingraham finally.

“No! I am hungry, too,” said Marian, with all the
dignity at her command. “Alistair, is there any beef left from dinner? I am
agonizingly hungry and it was all I could think about as we walked home.”

“And I thought you were attending to what I said.”

Marian smiled in the earl’s direction. “I was, silly!
But I am hungry, too, and when things do not go well, I especially like to eat.”

“I shall have to remember that,” Ingraham murmured.

Alistair pulled Marian to her feet. “Mare, I took the
liberty of making you a beef sandwich. It is in your room. For I know her
habits, my lord,” he said to Gilbert.

Marian kissed her brother. “Alistair, you do redeem
yourself. Good night then, sirs! I shall eat and consider this wrinkle in the
morning.”

“Good night, my dear,” said the earl. “And now,
Alistair, I particularly wanted to talk to you this evening . . . this morning.
You have spared me the necessity of waking you.” Marian paused on the stairs.
Ingraham waved her on. “Away, you abominable child.”

She sniffed and started up the stairs again.

The earl bounded up the stairs after her. “Just
remember what I said about trusting me, Marian. No matter what happens
tomorrow.”

She stared at him, mystified. He stood two steps below
her and she could look him in the eyes. Again she felt that curious tug at her
heart. It was more than a twinge, but less than a flutter, she thought. I shall
have to figure out what is the matter with me all of a sudden. I shall put my
mind to it when Christmas is past and Gil has left.

“Good night, Gil,” she said as she reached out and
touched his cheek lightly.

Before she could take her hand away, he planted a kiss
in her palm. “Just remember, Marian.”

I must be hungry, she thought as she floated up the
stairs. That’s it, surely. I am merely hungry.

“Marian! Marian! Wake up,
I
say.”

The deck of the burning frigate shivered as a new
explosion shook it. Marian clung to the ratlines and the ship settled in the
water. Gilbert was yelling at her to jump, prying her fingers from the ropes,
but she could not throw herself into the water.

“Marian! Ariadne, how can she sleep like this, all
wound up in her coverlets? Wake up, I say!”

Marian opened her eyes. Her mother was pummeling her
and tugging at the sheet that she had twisted around herself. Marian sniffed.
Wood smoke. The fireplace glowed cheerily. Lady Wynswich stood before her,
dressed for travel, panting a little from the exertion of waking her.

“Merciful heaven, Mama,” Marian exclaimed. “It is . . .”
She craned her neck to look at the bedside clock. “Is it seven-thirty only?
Mama? Are you well? This is two mornings in a row that you have left your bed
before noon.”

“Don’t be pert with me, young lady,” her mother
snapped, obviously both wide awake and irritated into the bargain. She plumped
herself down on the bed as Marian sat up and rubbed the sleep from her eyes.
She looked beyond her mother to Ariadne, who stood at the door, pale but
composed, and cloaked and bonneted. “I do not understand,” Marian muttered, and
tried to burrow back under her blanket. “Wherever you are going, I choose not
to come.”

Lady Wynswich slapped her smartly on the rump. “Pay
attention, girl! Percy received
a note early this morning from our solicitor in Lyme Regis. Bonebrake requests
his presence, mine, and Ariadne’s in his office at eleven of the clock.”

“How very odd,” Marian said. She reached for her robe. “Whatever
could it be about?”

Her exertions accomplished, Lady Wynswich stood up. ‘‘How
can we know? I am sure that he means to evict us. even before next quarter.”
Her eyes filled and her lips quivered. “Evict us, before Christmas? Heartless!
Percy declares it is not so, but I put no faith in solicitors, Marian, none
whatsoever! They are forever bearing bad news.”

“Mama,” Ariadne began in a soft voice, “you know that
is not so.” She touched her mother on the shoulder and handed her the
vinaigrette.

Lady Wynswich sniffed deep and coughed. “Percy says it
is fortuitous, for now we can discuss arrangements for Ariadne.” Her recovery
complete, she glanced at Ariadne. “You will be such a lovely spring bride, my
dear. It is something I have devoutly hoped for.”

“Yes, Mama,” Ariadne replied automatically. There was
no animation in her face, no glimmer in her eyes.

“And what am I to do, Mama?” asked Marian as she
buttoned up her robe.

Lady Wynswich took Marian’s hair and tugged it out from
the collar of the robe. “I wish you would braid this mass at night! It tangles
so wondrously.” She shook the handful of dark hair. “You will never catch a
husband like Ariadne if you let your hair go every which way.”

Marian tossed her head and made no attempt to find
logic in her mother’s speech. “Do you leave me in charge, then, Mama?” she
asked, searching for the twisted thread of her mother’s discourse.

Lady Wynswich shuddered. “I fear it must be so. Only
behave yourself, miss! Lord Ingraham, for whatever odd reason, has taken a
fancy to you, so I fear no trouble from that region. But if you are not
completely courteous to Sir William, I’ll— I’ll think of something truly
dreadful. Now get up and get to breakfast.” She kissed the air over Marian’s
head and hurried to the door, shooing Ariadne before her. “And try not to eat
everything except the cutlery.”

The door closed and Marian sank back down again, animadverting
to herself on her mother’s injunctions as she fingered her hair. She bounced to
her feet and stared long and deep into her mirror. In a moment, she was
brushing her hair, wondering if perhaps her mother was right. For if I braid it
tight every night, it will assume some sort of wave. I shall consider it. she
thought as she swept it back from her face and secured it with a bit of twine.

Such activity called for a riband. She tiptoed into
Ariadne’s room, rummaged in her tidy vanity, and unearthed a red riband. She
tied it handedly so it covered the twine, and surveyed the effect in Ariadne’s
mirror. I do wish my eyes were brown, she thought, but blue is not so bad.
Thank goodness I never threw out spots, like the doctor’s daughter.

Marian put on the green woolen dress she had been
saving for Christmas Day, struggling with the buttons up the back, wishing for
Ariadne’s help. Another trip to her sister’s room brought to light the lace
collar Ariadne had knitted. She patted it down. “The perfect touch,” she said
out loud, and then giggled. “I could slay dragons in this dress.”

Marian felt the soul of elegance as she descended the
stairs, gathering the skirt up in back to keep it from dragging on the steps.
She had begged and pleaded with her mother and the seamstress to make it just a
little longer than her other dresses, ignoring Ariadne’s “But, Mare, you have
such neat ankles,” and Lady Wynswich’s “My dear, you are not seventeen yet.”

She held her back straight and glided down the hall,
feeling older, mysterious even, a Circe misplaced in George’s England, a siren who could topple governments and change the course of history.

Sir William glared at her over the rim of his breakfast
cup of tea as she swept into the breakfast parlor.

Alistair choked on his ham. “Mare, what a rig-out. If
you’ve ever had a riband in your hair before, I disremember.”

Lord Ingraham stood at the sideboard, contemplating the
eggs and ham. He chose both and took the plate to his seat, and then held out
Marian’s chair for her. “A very lovely rig-out, I might add,’’ he whispered in
her ear as he quickly did up the one button she could not reach.

“Thank you,” she whispered in turn. “You see, sir, my
arms are not long enough.”

He shrugged and seated himself beside her. “They reach
to the end of your wrists, do they not?”

Marian winked at him. “You, sir, are a complete hand!”

The earl groaned and rolled his eyes.

Sir William glared at them both as he set his cup down
heavily. “I do not approve of punning in females. Miss Wynswich, particularly
over breakfast.”

Marian bit back the reply that rose to her lips. I will
be polite today, she told herself as she smiled sweetly. “It was raving
distempered of me, Sir William. Do forgive my unruly tongue.

Sir William harrumphed and addressed his plate.

Marian got her own breakfast and sat down to eat it.
There was scarcely enough on her plate to lay the dust of a long night’s drought,
but she resolved to visit the kitchen in midmorning to check on the Christmas
pudding and whatever else Cook would allow.

Alistair finished first and pushed back his chair. “I
am off to the stables, Lord Ingraham. Do you care to accompany me? I recall you
mentioned something about a canter around the place, and the sun is shining.”

“Very well, lad, I will join you. In a moment.” He
drained his teacup. “Sir William, what are your plans this day?”

Cook’s muffins had settled Sir William into better
tune. “I do believe I will search over the rest of this enchanting house, for I
do admire old things, Miss Wynswich,” he said to Marian. “Tell me. The part
that you seem not to use—how old is it?”

“Papa said it dates to the reign of Henry the Eighth.
You know, the one who was a husband so ill-suited to his wives.”

Sir William sprayed muffin across the table.

Marian flicked her napkin about her dress, goaded on by
her demon. “Of course, he was older than all except the first, and from what
Papa told me, a little stout. Perhaps he suffered from ill humors.”

“So it would seem, Marian,” Lord Ingraham said, as he
trod upon her toe. “Do excuse us, Sir William. Come, Marian.” He took her by
the elbow and lifted her out of her chair and into the hall before she had time
to put down her fork.

He pinned her back to the wall. “Marian Wynswich,
behave yourself,” he admonished. “There’s heavy business afoot today, and if
you rock the boat, I will personally pull your fingernails out one by one.”

She stared back. “Is this part of British diplomacy?”

The earl let go of her. “It should be in Devon, I am convinced. Mind your manners, brat.” He flicked her cheek with a careless
finger and opened the door to the breakfast parlor again.

She continued her breakfast in silence and took one
last sip of her cold tea. “Sir William, will you require my escort this
morning?”

“I think not, Miss Wynswich.” He favored her with a
smile, and little bits of egg dropped to the table. “And perhaps I should call
you Marian?” He looked at her as coyly as a well-stuffed walrus could look. “For
I do believe we soon will be related.”

“What—whatever you desire,” Marian said faintly,
resisting the urge to run gagging from the room.

“All that I will require . . .”

Is a block and tackle to rise from that chair, thought
Marian.

“. . . is some paper and a pencil. In case there is
anything worthy of note to inventory.”

She looked at him sharply. And see what you can carry
off as soon as you and Ariadne are wed, she thought.

He returned her look serenely, as if Covenden Hall were
already his. “I have already told you how I love old houses, Marian. Indeed, I
would never contemplate this marriage if I did not love old houses.”

Well, I like that, she thought.

“I merely want to record such details as I can about
wainscoting, mullioned windows, and the like.”

Marian found the required pad and pencil in the top
drawer of the sideboard and placed them before Sir William.

“Thank you, Marian. Should I require your assistance in
my perusal of this charming old manor, I will sing out.”

With a quick curtsy, Marian fled the breakfast parlor.
Her first impulse was to take a spanking rapid walk through the shrubbery until
her irritation exhausted itself, but the ground was still snow-covered and
appeared highly unreliable. She went instead to the library, which was located
in the newer wing of the house and considerably removed from the Henry the
Eighth section.

The garland of holly she had been stringing two days
before remained on the table, so she applied herself to the task, but not
before noticing that someone had been sitting in her father’s chair and had
left her copy of Blake open on the seat. Marian felt her irritation slide away.
How singularly sad that all house guests were not as amiable as Lord Gilbert
Ingraham.

Marian applied herself diligently to the garland,
determined to wrestle with a solution to Ariadne’s dilemma. She wondered
instead if Lord Ingraham had remembered to apply the salve to his cheek last
night and in the morning.

The holly pricked her finger. I really must pay
attention, or else I . . .

What she would do vanished from her mind. A scream of
impressive dimensions split the quiet of Covenden Hall. It seemed to linger on
the air longer than humanly possible and then resolve itself into a crescendo
of barking laughter that caused Marian to drop the garland and cover her ears.
The ghastly noise was followed by another scream, one that she remembered from
her late-night difficulty with Mama Cat and Sir William.

“Good God, Sir William,” she exclaimed, and ran into
the hall.

The shrieks came again, louder even, as if doors had
been opened. The screams sounded like those of the orangutan that she and
Alistair had observed, openmouthed, at a fair in Lyme Regis when they were both
much younger; it had given her nightmares for a week.

“Courage, Marian,” she told herself as she darted back
into the library and snatched up the fireplace poker. “You are in charge.”

It was hardly a spine-stiffening consideration. She
heard Sir William again, his voice high-pitched, and ran faster. She looked
about for allies, but not a single servant was in sight. They arc never about
when you need them, she thought grimly.

The great room of the old wing was deserted. It had
been tidied and dusted; the unlit Yule log already rested in the cavern of a
fireplace, awaiting Christmas Eve. She took this in at a glance as she stopped,
panting, at the foot of the staircase. One scream and then another, followed by
the curious rattling of chains, greeted her. The sound was directly overhead.