Marian's Christmas Wish (31 page)

“Very well, sir.”

“Very well.” He snapped open his pocket watch and
laughed softly. “Dearest brat, it is two in the morning. And do you know what
day this is?”

She shook her head.

“It is January seventh. My pudding wish is up. Good
night.”

Rather than devote her whole heart and mind to the
problem at hand, Marian Wynswich was asleep the moment Gilbert Ingraham closed
the door. She slept peacefully for the rest of the night, dreaming of nothing
more upsetting than salve and treaties.

She woke late in the morning to the sound of snow
tickling the windows again. “‘Ah, lovely Devon, where it snows eight days out
of seven,’” she said, and pulled back the covers.

Her knees looked no better, but the pain was less.
Marian smoothed on another layer of Lord Ingraham’s salve. I shall name it balm
of Gilead, she thought, and laughed out loud. He will appreciate that.

Dressing was an onerous chore. Marian’s arms ached, and
she knew she missed some of the buttons, but she resolved to wear her hair long
down her back and cover the omission.

The house appeared deserted. Marian went slowly down
the stairs, remembering that Percy had said something yesterday about Lyme
Regis. The door to Alistair’s room was closed, and she heard no sounds within,
so she did not disturb him. She peeked in the parlor and sighed with
disappointment. No Gilbert. The library produced no earl, either. The sole
occupant was a maid dusting the books.

“Sukey, have you seen Lord Ingraham this morning?”

“Oh, miss, I do not think he is here. His bag is
packed. I know
that, because
I
heard him ask Sir Percy to see that it was put on the
mail coach.”

Marian sank down in her father’s wing chair. “He is
gone?” she asked. “In this weather?”

“I’m sure I do not know, miss.”

Marian sat very still. She leaned back and closed her
eyes. “Gil, did you take your own advice?” she said. “Beg pardon, miss?”

“I’m sorry, Sukey. Nothing.”

Did you put your own fine mind to it last night after
you left me? Did you finally think—really think—about the fact that I am poor,
not a raving beauty, full of contradictions and whimseys? Did you change your
mind? I can scarcely blame you.

She opened her eyes. The snow was letting up. After
breakfast she would go out to the workroom and check on Mama Cat and her
kittens, and see that Solomon was behaving himself. I imagine that
I
can find someone to take the
kittens before April. But Solomon? Could there be a place at the vicarage for
him? He does such excellent work with mice.

Marian took a deep breath. And another. And another.
She frowned.

“Sukey? What is Cook making?”

“Oh, miss, I do not know. She scattered us out of the
kitchen early.
I
think
it is something special. She had such a glint in her eye.”

Marian managed a smile. Trust Cook to concoct something
to help take away the hurt. But why would she make that? Marian shook her head
and left the library.

The odor was stronger in the hall, and stronger still
as she walked to the back of the house and went downstairs to the kitchen. It
was a smell of figs and citron, of rum, orange peel, nuts, and candied fruits.
It was Christmas pudding.

And there was Lord Ingraham, apron around his middle,
cutting up orange pee! at the table. She stared at him in amazement, her eyes
enormous. He looked up. “Good morning, brat. Thought you would sleep all day.
Cat got your tongue, my heart?”

Without a word, she sat down at the table.

He turned to the great range. “Is this enough?”

Cook inspected the offering and nodded. “Mind you cut
the candied cherries smaller, my lord.”

“Smaller? Good heavens, are cherries not small enough
already?”

Marian smothered a laugh behind her hand. The earl
wiped his hands on his apron. “Well, I ask you, Marian.”

“You had better do as Cook says, Lord Ingraham. We
never argue with her.”

Startled. Marian turned around. “Ariadne?”

Her sister came out of the pantry, followed by the
Reverend Beddoe, who carried a bowl of ground suet. Cook inspected the suet and
banished the vicar to the pantry again to grind it finer. She shook her knife
at him when he appeared disposed to argue.

“Dump it in there, my lord,” said Cook when the
cherries had been minced to her total satisfaction. “You will be a cook yet.”
She added Sam’s suet when he returned with it, put in another cup of flour,
another sprinkle of rum, and then handed the wooden spoon to Lord Ingraham. “Stir,
my lord.”

He bowed and took the spoon. Marian eyes began to mist
over. He looked at her. “Brat, you needn’t cry. There are no onions in
Christmas pudding.”

“I am not crying,” she retorted. “There is merely
something in my eye.”

“Mare, you’re such a silly,” Alistair commented from
the stairway. He was wrapped in Percy’s silk dressing gown, and escorted by his
brother, who kept a hand on his arm and helped him to the table. “Where is
Mama?”

“Right here, Alistair,” Lady Wynswich said, coming from
the pantry. “I wanted to grind the nuts just so, and Sam was wondrous slow about
the suet. Here you are, Gilbert. Stir a little taster, or it will burn!”

“Yes, my dear,” he said, and kissed her on the cheek.

Lady Wynswich blushed.

Marian sat in dignified silence for the space of
another minute,
looking from face to face, her gaze finally coming to rest on the man
at the cooking range. “I suspect a great conspiracy, my lord,” she said.

“It is nothing devious or deceptive, Marian,” he
replied mildly. “I have abandoned deception. You will recall the day?”

“It is January seventh.”

“Indeed. My pudding wish was up last night.” He stirred
the pot. “It only stands to reason, my heart, that if I make another pudding
and another wish, I will have until January sixth next year for it to come
true.”

“That is only reasonable,” Percy agreed. The others
nodded.

Gilbert turned back to the pot. “And so, my dear, I
will have another year to win you over.” He looked over his shoulder at her. “By
then you will be older—of course, so will I—and wiser.”

Percy got to his feet and clapped Lord Ingraham on the
back. “Only think of yourself as fine wine, Gilbert, and how well you age.”

Gilbert groaned. “Percy, spare my gray hairs! Another
word and I will see that you are forced to accompany me to America instead of Vienna.” He put his arm around Percy Wynswich and hugged him. “As I think of it,
not a bad idea. I fear Europe will be awash very soon in new troubles.”

“The idea has merit,” Percy agreed. “Let us consider
it. Look, Gilbert, I think it is ready. What say you, Cook?”

Cook was dabbing at her eyes with her apron. “Yes, and
be quick about it.”

“Gather around, Wynswiches one and all,” ordered Lord
Ingraham. “Who goes first? Sam?”

The vicar took the spoon, closed his eyes, and stirred
the pudding, declaring a loud “Amen!” He handed the spoon to his fiancee, who
closed her eyes, stirred, and blew a kiss to her sister, who still sat at the
table. “Mama?”

Lady Wynswich took the spoon. “I don’t know why I
should wish Marian so far away,” she grumbled, “but if everyone insists
...”

“We do,” they all said.

“Very well, then, I’ll do it. Alistair?”

Alistair took the spoon and wished. “I will miss you
more than I can say, Marian,” he said, his eyes serious. “You’re very dear to
my heart.”

“Alistair . . .” Marian said, and slowly got to her
feet.

“Hold off, Marian.” declared Percy, taking the spoon
from his brother, who seemed to be having trouble with his eyes, “It is my turn
first.” He gave the spoon several turns around the pot. “You know, of course,
that our is the most wonderful family that ever lived in Devon,” he said. “Even
if we are not together in our home for any more such Christmases, the memory of
this one will keep us close together. I wish for you, Marian, as we all have
done. And on our behalf, I thank you for the years and years of Christmas
wishes you have lavished upon all of us.”

“Percy, I . . .” Marian began, and took the spoon.

“Oh, no! I insist it is my turn,” declared Lord
Ingraham, taking the spoon from her hand. He put his arm around Marian’s waist
and held her close. “It’s the same wish I made two weeks ago. Is that
permissible. Alistair?”

“Oh, yes, as long as you still mean it.”

“Oh, I do. Even more.” He closed his eyes and stirred.
He let go of Marian and looked into her eyes. “And now, my dear, it is your
turn.”

She took the spoon, but did not stir. “Gil, are you
sure? Have you really thought about this?”

He went to the table, where he had left his coat, and
came back with her copy of
The Poetics.
“Did you not miss this? I found it in your room in Bath after you left. See here, where I have underlined?”

He held the book up for her and she read the Greek
lines, gasped, and laughed. She tried to stir the pudding. “Gil, my hand is too
sore. You will have to help.”

He placed his hand carefully around hers and they
stirred the pot together as everyone gathered closer.

“Done. Cook,” Marian declared, and threw her arms
around Gilbert Ingraham. “I love you, Gil,” she said, and kissed him.

Lady Wynswich and Ariadne started to cry and the
reverend had to sit down at the table.

Percy took the book out of Lord Ingraham’s hand, read
the underlined passage, and chuckled. Alistair looked next, only to shake his
head. He looked at the earl and sighed, “I know, I know. The value of an
education! But, sir—or do I say, brother?—explain for those less gifted in the
Attic languages.’’

“It merely says that one should always prefer the
probable impossible to the improbably possible. As there is no one more
impossible than Marian Wynswich, I knew that Aristotle would win out. Marian,
will you marry me and follow me to the ends of the earth, forsaking all
libraries?”

“Yes.”

Gilbert picked her up, whirled her around, kissed her
soundly, and sat her on his lap. “Will you marry me next week? We sail in two
weeks.”

“Of course. But I have no dress.”

Lady Wynswich blew her nose and wiped her eyes. “Of
course you do! You don’t really think Mrs. Tilby was making that dress for Ariadne,
do you? She isn’t to be married until April, after all.”

“Mama,” was all Marian could manage, but it said
everything.

The silence threatened to bring a flood of tears, so
Gilbert put Marian off his lap and reached for his coat again. “Lady Wynswich,
you have reminded me. I have something here for Percy, but I suppose it is for
everyone. Percy?”

He handed an envelope to Percy, who opened it and then
stared at Lord Ingraham. “You?”

“I cannot deceive you.” The earl winked at Marian. “Indeed,
I have promised not to practice any further deception. I was the purchaser of
this fine old home. And I return the deed to you as my wedding gift.”

Alistair whistled. “I do not know that Mare is worth
all that, my lord.”

“That and more, you scamp,” Ingraham declared, and set
his beloved back on his lap.

Marian put her arms around him and rested her head
against his chest. “How odd this is,” she murmured. “Just a moment ago, I said
I loved you and I thought I could never love you more than I did right then.
And now I love you more.”

He gathered her close. “It could become a habit. You
may even love me more after next week’s wedding, or even after our dreary ocean
voyage, possibly even after our children are born, and after we have traveled
here and there, and had an occasional heartache. It’s a theory, anyway, and I
am resolved to test it.”

The other Wynswiches found pressing activities to
occupy themselves for the next few moments while Lord Ingraham and his dear
brat theorized.

“And I shall apply immediately for a special license,”
he said when he caught his breath again. “The Archbishop of Canterbury is a
friend of mine.”