Marian's Christmas Wish (4 page)

The thought launched him into silent laughter. He
leaned against the bed and stretched his bare legs out in front of him. “Mercy,”
he whispered to her at last, “I don’t know when I’ve been so entertained at
three in the morning.”

After another shake of his shoulders, he got to his
feet and held out a hand for Marian. She gathered the kittens and cat into her
nightgown and took her burden into the hall, the tall man’s hand on her back to
guide her in the dark. She looked behind her once. “Thank you for not cutting
up stiff, sir,” she whispered.

“To show you what a good fellow I am, I will put in a
nice word to your brother, my dear. I do not think he will ship you to Australia. Are you Marian?”

“Yes.”

“I thought so.”

She stopped in surprise. “What do you mean?”

He laughed out loud. “Percy has already warned me.”

Sir William was sitting up now. Lady Wynswich was
reduced to hiccups, while Ariadne still sobbed. Alistair stood in his doorway,
shaking his head over the follies of his elders.

Percy turned to Marian, his eyes wide. He slowly shook
his head.

“Welcome home, Percy,” Marian said.

Mama Cat delivered herself of two more kittens on
Marian’s bed, grunting and grunting and then purring as she licked the new
arrivals with her rough tongue. Marian rubbed the little ones dry with the hem
of her nightgown, all the time rehearsing in her mind what she would say to
Percy and Mama in the morning.

Before Percy had turned his attentions back to the
little fat man wheezing on the carpet he had said to her, “Marian, the gold
saloon, nine tomorrow morning.” Mama had seconded his command, adding, “And not
one second later,” before returning to her own tearful apology to Sir William.

As she sat cross-legged on her bed and watched the
kittens, Marian could have told Percy there was no need to hold star-chamber
proceedings in the gold saloon. The thought of her mother out of bed and
dressed at the unheard-of hour of nine
A.M.
had already put her into such a quake that she knew she
would be far advanced in age—probably twenty at least—before the memory of it
would dim.

Last night, as she had struggled in the dark hallway
with the newborn kittens, Alistair had attempted to come to her aid. As he
hurried toward her, he tripped over his sheet and sprawled on his stomach next
to Sir William, affording the astounded company an excellent view of his bare
parts. Philanthropy suddenly stripped from his mind, Alistair elected
discretion over valor and beat a hasty retreat to his own room.

There had been only one advocate in the hallway. As she
gathered her dignity and her kittens and skirted past the little man on the
carpet, the tall rescuer of the kittens touched her on the shoulder. It was
more than a touch; it was a reassuring squeeze.

Or so she had imagined. Marian resisted the urge then
and there to cry “Sanctuary!” and hurl herself into the tall man’s arms. It was
curious indeed, but as she prepared to face the dragons in the gold saloon, she
felt his protection around her still.

The feeling vanished the moment she raised her hand to
knock on the door, forbiddingly shut. Instead of knocking, she put her ear to
the door. All was silence within. There was not even the comfort of idle
chatter from inside. Marian took a deep breath, knocked, and entered the room.

Lady Wynswich lay on the sofa, her vinaigrette clutched
tight in her hand. The disagreeable odor of burned feathers filled the room
like fog over Picton. Percy stood at the window watching his sister, his lips
still set in the grim lines of last night. Marian looked at him and her heart
failed her.

It wasn’t the look of irritation that overset her. She
had seen that look the time she took his best neckcloths to line a basket for a
family of orphaned rabbits, or the day she ran away and had to be retrieved
from a posting house ten miles distant. What caused her heart to flutter and
then drift down toward her slippers was the look in his eyes.

Even at her father’s funeral, when Percy Wynswich stood
at the head of the casket and pitched in the first handful of dirt, she had not
seen that look. Shock and sorrow, yes, but not flat-out despair. It was not in
his nature.

Despair stared back at her now. Her legs failed her.
She groped for the chair nearest the door and sank into it. No one said
anything. No one moved. Marian’s eyes filled with tears.

Her own expression of anguish struck some chord in
Percy. He came toward her, lifted her by the elbows from the chair, and took
her in his arms. “Mare, don’t ever look at me like that,” he said as she sobbed
on his chest.

Her mother had not envisioned such easy capitulation.
She cleared her throat several times until her children looked around at her.

Percy tucked Marian close to his side and began in
gentler tones. “Marian, I have already spoken to Alistair, and he—”

“Oh. Percy,” she burst out, “he has been sent down! I
was so worried it would overset Mama. That was why I hid him. And as for the
cat . . .” She stopped.

The despair had returned to her brother’s eyes. He took
her by the hand and led her to a chair closer to Mama. His hands were icy cold.
He gestured toward the table.

She saw the letter. Her heart gave a last, weak plop
and settled around her ankles.

“It is more than rustication. Marian. The letter is
from the headmaster. Eton will not entertain Alistair Wynswich for one more
term. Marian, he is out.” He took her by the hand again. “And I do not know
what to do.”

“Come, come, son,” Lady Wynswich said as she rallied
and sat up on the sofa. “What is that to anything, really? Papa used to brag on
the schools he went through. There are other schools. Probably better ones.”

“And they are an expense, Mama,” Percy said, his voice
controlled. “And this estate . . .” He could scarcely continue, no matter how
calm his voice. “This estate is so heavily encumbered with Papa’s debts that we
might all be permanently rusticated by the end of next quarter.”

His words seemed to hover about the room for an age and
then land on Marian’s shoulders. Where she had longed for Percy to return from
his diplomatic chores and lift some of the worry from her, he had only
increased it.

She found her voice after a moment. “Oh. Percy, surely
not! Surely a little more economizing, a little—”

“No, Mare. We’re in the basket, under the hatches,
knocked up.” He waved aside Mama’s indignation at his language. “Papa danced,
and now we must pay the piper.”

Lady Wynswich reached for her handkerchief. “Odious,
odious boy,” she said. “How can you speak so of dear Papa? Are you so dead to
feeling?”

Marian’s eyes flew to Percy as he shuddered under the
force of his mother’s recrimination. She tried to take his hand, but he would
not have it. He returned to the window again, and there he remained until he
achieved some command over himself.

Lady Wynswich saw none of this. She sobbed into her
handkerchief. “Marian, my smelling salts. Oh, where is Ariadne? Ariadne is
such a comfort!”

Words were a waste. Marian pointed to the vinaigrette
already clasped tight in her hand. Her mother glared at her. “Even Alistair
would be a relief,” she said in a whisper loud enough for Percy to hear. “He
would not pinch at me and threaten doom. Alistair is always so agreeable.” She
stared at her elder son’s back. “Not like some I could name.”

“Mama, please,” said Marian. “Don’t
...
Oh, not now!”

Percy sighed and came back to stand by his mother. “My
dear, finances are never pleasant for the Wynswiches, but they must be faced.
The bailiff and I and Papa’s solicitors have kept up such a correspondence this
fall. They assure me that I can staunch the hemorrhage with a little money.” He
bowed. “Excuse my language, Mama, but that is the cold fact. We need some cash.”
He sighed again. “And that is why I agreed with you in your last letter. That
is why Sir William Clinghorn is here.”

Lady Wynswich looked at Marian in triumph. “You are not
the only clever one in the family, my dear girl.”

Marian raised her eyes to stare at her brother, and he
could not meet her glance. He attempted a light tone. “‘Extraordinary times
call for extraordinary measures,’ says our prime minister.” The tack failed and
he abandoned it. “Sir William is looking for a wife, someone who will pour tea
at receptions, take no untoward interest in affairs foreign and domestic,
someone to do him credit at court functions and cause him no embarrassment. He
doesn’t have the inclination for an extended courtship. I suggested Ariadne and
he is here.”

There was something of defiance in his voice.

Marian raised her chin. “And if I were older, you would
ransom me, too?”

“I probably would, Marian. We are that desperate.”

She could not look at him. Hardly realizing what she
did, she scooted her chair away from her brother. She regretted the gesture the
moment she did it, but she could not take it back any more than Percy could
take back the look on his face.

“Which brings us to this morning’s interview, Marian.”

His voice was formal, distant. Percy Wynswich might as
well have been discussing some term of the Treaty of Ghent. He ameliorated his
tone by standing behind her chair and placing his hands on her shoulders, but
his fingers were so cold.

“I spent the better part of last night convincing Sir
William to stay. He will be here in a matter of minutes. You are to apologize
to him.”

If he had expected a fight from her, she disappointed
him. Marian nodded and then shifted her shoulders slightly. Percy dropped his
hands and stepped back.

“And you are to do nothing else to throw this household
on its side,” he continued. “I am well aware of the influence you exert over
your older sister. I would wish that Ariadne were not so biddable at times, but
it will probably serve us well enough now if Sir William’s wooing is to go
forth—without any exertion,” he concluded dryly.

Marian stood up slowly, as if unsure of her balance. “And
it doesn’t matter to you that she is agonizingly in love with our vicar?”

He regarded her. “And does our vicar have a fortune to
waste on Covenden Hall?”

She returned him stare for stare. “You know he does
not. Percy, how can you be so heartless?”

If she had suddenly ripped open his shirt and clawed
out his heart, she could not have increased the pain in his eyes. He grasped
her by the shoulders and shook her, even as his eyes filled. “I have been over
and over the estate books until I am dizzy with it, Mare,” he exclaimed, and then
dropped his voice to a whisper. “And there is no other solution. After a while,
given time, Ariadne will conform herself to the notion. You know she will.”

“And we can have beeswax candles again,” Lady Wynswich
added her mite.

Marian sucked in her breath and stared at them both,
her mother triumphant, even as she dabbed at her eyes, Percy dashing his hand
across his own, his face a study in shame. She could only turn away and hug
herself with her arms. Her fingers had grown as cold as Percy’s and her head
was beginning to ache.

The knock at the door roused her. Without another look
back at her brother, she opened it.

Sir William Clinghorn stood in front of her. Marian
looked him over and decided that moonlight became him more than the glare of
morning, even a shadowy Devon morning with its misty rain. He was shorter and
fatter and reeked of eau de cologne. And this toad is Ariadne’s future, she
thought even as she smiled at him, curtsied, and held out her hand.

He gave it a perfunctory shake and stepped into the
room. The stays of his corset protested as he bowed to Lady Wynswich and Percy,
folded his arms, and looked at Marian again, waiting.

She cleared her throat. “Forgive me, Sir William, for
the hubble-bubble last night.”

It wasn’t enough. Still he glared at her. He was so fat
that he had to clutch at the sleeves of his coat to keep his arms folded across
his paunch. The eau de cologne was overpowering.

“I
...
I
forget myself occasionally. I don’t mean to, truly I don’t.”

“The folly of youth,” tossed in Lady Wynswich, sitting
up straighter on the sofa.

“Then I can take it that distempered freaks are not a
condition of this household?”

“Only mine,” she said earnestly, and then blushed as
Sir William started to laugh.

It was more than a laugh. It was a donkey’s bray, a
hee-haw accompanied by the crack and sputter of his corset. “Oh, my, this is a
ripe one, Percy,” he managed at last. He pinched Marian’s cheek until she
squirmed. “You’ll never find a husband for this one outside of a lunatic
asylum.”

Percy managed a tiny smile. “Come, come, Sir William,
let us be charitable.”

Sir William released Marian. “ ‘Tis the season, eh?” he
brayed in her face. He clapped his hands together. “Very well, my dear Percy.”
He winked at Lady Wynswich. “And now, if you’ll call Ariadne, we’ll make our
acquaintance. Ariadne,” he rolled the name around on his tongue like a bad
taste. “What a name, Lady W.! Whatever were you thinking of?”

Marian felt Percy stiffen even as he took her firmly by
the elbow. “Very well, Sir William, I shall go find her. Come, Marian.”

She opened her mouth to protest, but Percy’s grip
tightened. Sir William was warming to his subject. “Has she a middle name, Lady
Wynswich?”

“Elaine,” Lady Wynswich said, and reached for her
handkerchief again.