Marian's Christmas Wish (15 page)

“I left him a note downstairs, propped up on the mantelpiece.”

“I’m sure that will greatly relieve his mind,” fumed
Marian.

Daniel joined them, and he and Alistair dragged Lord
Ingraham down the stairs, pausing every few steps. “He’s a deadweight, Mare,”
Alistair panted.

She refused to be moved by pity. “You should have
thought of that last night over your Lafite,” she snapped.

Marian watched them trundle Lord Ingraham out the front
door. She darted back into his room for another look around. His traveling bag
lay open on the floor. She whisked the brush and comb off the bureau and added
them to the case, strapping it down. She carried it out to the gig and climbed
in next to Lord Ingraham. who listed to one side like a ship taking on water.
Alistair straightened him up and Marian leaned against him to balance him
upright.

The cold air caused his eyelids to flutter. He opened
them, looked around him in total incomprehension, and closed them again. His
head drooped forward and he began to snore.

“Alistair, how much of that bottle did you slip him?”
Marian asked as Alistair chirruped to the horse and they started down the lane
to the main road.

“I’m not really sure, Mare,” he said, his eyes straight
ahead. “I figured it all out so carefully, and then Percy was there waving
about a bottle of Lafite. and I just dumped it in his cup.’’

Marian shuddered. “Brother, our parents should have
left you on a hillside to die when you were born. The Greeks did it all the
time.” Her voice rose to an unpleasant pitch; Lord Ingraham winced and flopped
his head against her shoulder.

“No! Did the Greeks do that?” asked Alistair,
completely diverted. “How barbaric of them! I would have thought they knew
better.”

Marian sighed and attempted no more conversation until
they reached the crossing. They waited in the gig, Daniel perched in the back
holding the luggage, until they heard the horn of the mail coach.

Alistair turned to Marian. “I could probably do this by
myself,” he offered.

Marian shook her head. “And leave me to face Percy
alone? Oh, no! We will pray that by Christmas Eve Percy will be full of
Christian charity.”

Marian paid the driver, counting out the coins and
pocketing the rest, while Daniel and Alistair hauled the inert Lord Ingraham
aboard the mail coach.

“I don’t know, miss,” said the driver doubtfully.

It was an easy matter to allow tears to spring to her
eyes. “But, sir, we are returning him to our home in Bath.” The tears flowed
more freely. “True, he
is
a trifle indisposed right now, but it has been five
years—five years!—since our widowed mother has seen him. Oh, sir, it is
Christmas!”

By the time she finished her artful declaration, the
other coach passengers were peering out the window. One older woman was dabbing
at her eyes.

The driver rubbed his chin and then pinched Marian’s
cheek. She forced herself to twinkle her eyes at him. “For you, miss, I’ll do
it. But mind you keep an eye on him!”

She curtsied. “Oh, God bless you, sir. Our mother will
be endlessly grateful to you.”

The coach was full. Lord Ingraham, his eyes half-open,
leaned against Alistair, who sat crowded against the window. Marian squeezed in
next to Lord Ingraham, who promptly sagged against her, making himself
comfortable, his head cradled on her chest.

An older woman sat on the other side of Marian. “Did
you say it had been five years?” she asked in an undervoice. She leaned forward
for a better look at Lord Ingraham. “Mercy, if he don’t look like a pirate.”

A parson who was sitting across the way nodded. “This,
surely, is a man who has kept low company.”

You can’t guess how much he would agree with you right
now, Marian thought to herself as she touched his hair, admiring the color of
it. She looked about her at the other man seated next to the parson. He stared
but said nothing. She sniffed. He smelled strongly of fish. He eyed her with
considerable expectancy. She leaned the earl toward Alistair and took a deep
breath.

“Sirs, you cannot imagine,” she said in a
conspiratorial whisper to the men opposite them, who leaned forward. “Imagine
this: he was traveling to Istanbul and was set upon by Turks.”

The woman next to her gasped, and Lord Ingraham stirred
uneasily. Alistair opened and closed his mouth several times, while the parson
removed his wig, rubbed the top of his bald head, and replaced it. The silent
man rummaged in his pocket and popped a herring into his mouth.

Marian took her handkerchief from her pocket and
twisted it in her hands. “And there he was, my poor brother, chained to a
galley bench and forced to row for the next five years of his life.”

The woman burst into tears. The parson clucked his
tongue. “I had no idea that the Turkish navy still employed galley slaves.”

“Oh, they are not employed, sir,” Alistair added. “Gilbert
has nothing to show for it.”

“I believe the area of the Mediterranean Sea is
considerably more backward than England,” said Marian hastily. “It was ‘Row,
row, you blaggards,’ every day of his life for five long years.” She patted the
earl’s leg. “And that is why his hair is gone almost gray, and he a young man
still.”

The woman sobbed louder. “And that terrible scar?”

Marian dabbed at her dry eyes. “He was branded, ma’am,
branded like an animal. That is the Turkish symbol for ‘slave.’” She sighed and
managed a small sob. “And so he will be marked for the rest of his life.”

“It is a melancholy reflection on the state of the
world, outside of England,” commented the parson. “I trust he learned his
lesson and will not travel abroad again.”

“I am sure he will not,” agreed Marian.

“Will not what?” asked Ingraham in a drowsy voice.

Marian jumped. Lord Ingraham’s eyes were wide open, the
pupils greatly dilated. He looked about him in complete amazement. “Where the
deuce am I?”

As her heart plummeted toward her toes, Marian grabbed
his hand and covered it with kisses. “And this is the worst part,” she cried. “He
sometimes cannot remember where he is!”

“And that’s the truth,” said Ingraham. He closed his
eyes again and was soon snoring.

Alistair blinked and retreated like a turtle into the
warmth and security of his overcoat. Marian clung to Lord Ingraham’s hand. “That
is the sorrow of it all. Sometimes we even have to remind him who we are.”

“Let this be a lesson to those who go adventuring,” sermonized
the parson as he returned to his bible.

The silent man shook his head and pocketed his herring.

The woman next to Marian dried her tears and picked up
her knitting again. Gradually Lord Ingraham relaxed against Marian, and soon he
was sleeping.

On the other side of Lord Ingraham, Alistair continued
his intense scrutiny of the countryside. Marian made herself as comfortable as
she could and wished that she had found time for breakfast. She had never cared
for herring, but the smell of it lingered in the coach, and her stomach began
to rumble. The cold was beginning to seep inside the venerable mail coach.
Marian closed her eyes and burrowed in closer to Lord Ingraham. Before she
drifted off to sleep, she roused herself long enough to notice that the rain
pelting down had turned into snow.

The blast from the coachman’s horn woke her. The steady
rhythm of the horses running smoothly in harness was slower now. They were
coming to a village. Marian sat up and glanced quickly at Lord Ingraham.

The earl’s eyes were open, his pupils much larger now.
Marian bit her lip and watched him as he stared straight ahead, a little frown
on his face, as if he were attempting to discover what he was doing on a coach.
The last thing he probably remembered was staring into a Yule log and drinking
Lafite ‘Ol, she thought.

“This is my get-off,” said the lady as she stowed her
knitting and arranged her cloak about her shoulders again. “And now it’s
snowing. I hope you’ll have a safe enough journey to Bath, my dear.”

“Bath?” Lord Ingraham asked. “Good God.”

The woman peered at him, and her ready tears began to
flow again. “Oh, you poor, poor dear,” she crooned, “and you don’t even
remember where you’re going.” She reached into her basket and drew out a pair
of bright-colored mittens. “Here, take these and wear them in good health. Now
that you’re back in England, you’ll need some warm mittens.” She placed them in
his lap and patted his knee, all the time looking at Marian. “I’m sure he’ll be
better, young lady.”

Ingraham stared at her, his mouth open, as she nimbly
removed herself from the coach, waved good-bye, and disappeared into the
swirling snow.

Marian held her breath as the parson took out a
stocking change purse and carefully counted out several shillings. He placed
the coins on top of the mittens. “I was taking these to Bristol to the Widows
and Children’s Home for Christmas, but I don’t know why you can’t have some,
young man,” he said, and patted the earl’s knee, too. “To help you to a fresh
start.”

Lord Ingraham could only stare, wide-eyed, at the
parson. Alistair let out a long, low whistle and slid farther down into his
overcoat. Marian’s tongue froze to the roof of her mouth.

The parson gathered up his belongings. As he left the
coach, he turned suddenly and shook a finger at Lord Ingraham. “Now, remember,
laddie, this is the season of forgiveness. I depend upon you as a good
Englishman to forgive those Turks.”

He was followed from the coach by the silent man who
smelled of fish. As the man passed in front of Lord Ingraham, he dropped a
packet of salted herring in the diplomat’s lap. “Merry Christmas, laddie,” the
man said, “and stay out of the Mediterranean.”

The coach was empty. Silence filled the air. Marian
could feel Gilbert drawing himself up. Before he could speak, the coachman
swung down and looked inside. “We’ll be stopping for a half-hour. Mind you come
inside and warm yourselves.”

Numbly, Marian rose and pulled her cloak tighter about
her. She didn’t dare look at Lord Ingraham as she made to leave the coach, but
he grasped the back of her cloak and held her there.

“Not so fast, Marian. You’re going to explain to me
what’s going on.”

“Not here,” she said, and tugged at her cloak, which
the earl showed no desire to turn loose.

The coachman opened the door. “Miss, are ye having
trouble with an ugly customer?” He peered closer at Lord Ingraham and then
whispered to Marian in a loud voice, “Is this the man I’ve been hearing so much
about?”

She nodded. “We will be quite all right. Oh, sir, could
we just sit here a moment? We’ll be in directly.”

The coachman grunted and tipped his hat to her. “Mind
you don’t sit out here too long.” He pulled his coat tighter about him. “Looks
like we brought the bad weather with us.”

He left them, and Lord Ingraham twitched on her cloak
again. Marian sat down and looked to Alistair for help. Her brother still sat
with his neck deep in his overcoat.

Lord Ingraham eyed the brother and sister in turn. He
poured the parson’s coins into the old lady’s mittens and pocketed them. “Well?
Who goes first?” he asked, his voice loud enough to make Marian wince. “You can
begin by explaining why my eyes feel twelve feet away from my toes and there
are occasionally two of you, Marian, if I turn my head too quickly.” He rubbed
the stubble on his chin. “One of you is enough. Anyone would tell you one is
enough.”

His eyes held no amusement, and his lips were set along
firm, unsmiling lines. “And don’t try to tell me I drank too much. I am careful
about those things.”

Alistair cleared his throat and raised up a little
higher from the safety of his overcoat. “Actually, my lord, I drank too much.”

“And you feel this way, too? My sympathy.” Lord
Ingraham took the mittens from his pocket. “Of course, I seem to have the
sympathy of everyone on this vile conveyance.” He looked about him, turning his
head slowly, as if it ached. “And pray tell, what is this humble vehicle?”

“It is a mail coach, my lord,” Alistair offered.

“Indeed. And what am I doing on a mail coach?”

Marian opened her mouth to answer, but Lord Ingraham
held up his hand. “Wait. Let me guess. Could this be the coach bound for Bath, or would that be too much coincidence?”