Marian's Christmas Wish (8 page)

She appealed to Lord Ingraham. “Sir you must forgive us
both our rudeness.”

Alistair snorted, and she whirled about. “For that’s
what it is, Alistair!”

Gilbert merely smiled and watched them both. Marian
stared down Alistair, and he laughed and put up both hands to ward off his
sister.

“Alistair,” she declared, “I am so much better when you
are not about! Even Mama remarks upon it.”

“She will now blame me for her manners, my lord,”
Alistair explained. He frowned and was silent a moment. “Better we should blame
our own dear Bertram Wynswich, eh?” he said quietly.

His serious tone stabbed at Marian’s heart, but she
nodded. “Mama had the raising of Percy and Ariadne,” she explained, too shy to
meet Lord Ingraham’s glance, which had not wavered from her face. “That was
before . . . before she took to her bed so often. Oh, there were such times we
had
...”
Marian began wistfully, and
then stopped as she recalled herself to the moment. “But truly, Percy and
Ariadne are everything that is proper.’’

“And dull occasionally,” added Alistair.

“Alistair, please!” Marian flared. “Well, I own at
times
...”
She smiled to herself, a
quick grin chasing across her face and gone in no time. “So Mama turned me and
Alistair over to Papa, and he always encouraged us to speak our minds.” She
looked down at her hands. “Plain speaking is a hard habit to break, my lord.
There’s something so . . .
so free
about it. Ah, well.” She finally raised her eyes to
Gilbert Ingraham’s. “And things do strike me funny. Well, I am determined to do
better in the New Year. It is time I grew up.”

Lord Ingraham touched her cheek. “But not too fast,
please? I confess to being bored around diplomats who never, ever, say what is
on their minds.” He bowed. “It is a pleasure to meet a female with both hair
and wit.”

Alistair laughed as Marian blushed. “Oh, Mare, aren’t
you the silly one! And you had better get used to having me around, especially
if I cannot convince Percy to let me ship off to sea as some man o’ war’s ‘Young
Gentleman.’” He appealed to Lord Ingraham. “My lord, I know I am old enough to
go to sea, but Percy will have none of it.”

“Perhaps if you went to school and did well, he might
reconsider,” Lord Ingraham suggested.

“You don’t know Percy,” Alistair said morosely, and sat
beside his sister.

“And there are other schools beside Eton,” continued
Lord Ingraham.

Marian watched him. Again he appeared on the verge of
saying something more, but he did not. How good he is at that, she thought. I
would blurt out whatever came into my head, and then regret it. I must ask him
how he keeps his own counsel so well.

She knew she would not. She also knew that Percy would
rake her over the hearth for dragging the elegant Lord Ingraham into the stable
for a dose of her dog-and-cat salve. He would look at her in that patient way
of his, and the despair in his eyes would make her squirm again.

She handed the bottle of salve to Lord Ingraham and
stood up, brushing the bits of straw from her skirt and mumbling her apologies
for taking up his time. “For I do forget myself,” she concluded, ameliorating
the effect by adding, “when I remember.”

Lord Ingraham looked from the sister to the brother and
back again. “You two are surely the most abominable children I ever met. You
must be a sore trial to Percy and your mama.”

“Oh, we are,” agreed Alistair, not in the least put
out, “although Marian is forever telling me to behave as I ought, and Ariadne .
. .” He turned to Marian. “That was what I came here for. Do you know that the
vicar is in the house seeking an audience with Ariadne?” His face fell. “But I
do believe he got Mama instead.”

“Oh, Alistair, no,” exclaimed Marian. “Could you not
rescue him? Only think what Mama is telling him about Sir William!”

Her brother grabbed his coat and fled the workroom.
Marian threw on her cloak and followed after him. Lord Ingraham right behind.

The vicar’s gig waited in the front drive. As Marian
and Lord Ingraham came around the corner of the building, Alistair was already
up the front steps in time to hold the door open for the vicar. Other than a
slight lift of the eyebrows, Mr. Sam Beddoe barely acknowledged Alistair’s
presence. He dragged down the front steps, his head drooping down into the top
of his overcoat, like a turtle retreating into its shell. He did not see them;
even if he had, Marian thought, he would not have known them.

Sam stood there a moment beside the gig, as if
wondering what it was doing there. Eventually he recognized the horse as his
own and climbed in. He sat there in the rain another long moment before he
spoke to the horse and started down the lane.

Alistair looked back at Marian and Lord Ingraham,
shrugged, and went indoors.

“Mama has told Sam about Sir William, depend upon it,”
Marian said, and then to her own amazement, she burst into noisy tears.

She could not have explained why, but she was not at
all surprised when Lord Ingraham took her into his arms right there in the
drive and held her tight, his hand on her hair, her face pressed against his
chest. She was not even surprised at herself when she put her arms around his
waist and sobbed heartily into his already wet coat.

“Poor, poor Marian,” he said softly, “we are ruining
your Christmas, are we not? What can I do to make it better?”

His voice was amazingly soothing. If the rain had not
commenced to drum down, Marian would have been content to remain where she was.
“I wish Sir William would go away,” she sobbed. “And I wish, oh, I wish the
vicar would inherit a fortune.” She stepped out of Lord Ingraham’s generous
embrace. “But now I am being foolish beyond belief, Lord Ingraham.”

“Gil,” he reminded her.

“No. Lord Ingraham,” she repeated. “I am too forward by
half. I cannot fathom what you must think of me, sir.” She wiped her face. “But
it would be wonderful beyond anything if my wishes came true.”

“Done,” Lord Ingraham said in a low voice.

She started toward the front steps and then stopped. “Beg
pardon?” she asked.

“Oh, nothing, Marian,” he said. “Hurry inside before
you catch a cold.’’

Percy waited for her in the front hall, his lips tight
together again, no humor in his eyes. Marian stopped where she was, just inside
the door, her hands clasped together in front of her. Gilbert stood next to
her; unconsciously she moved closer to him.

Percy stared at her. Marian gazed back timidly. “Percy,
you are back so soon.”

“It was too wet for Sir William,” he replied in crisp
tones. “Devon weather displeases him.” Percy folded his arms across his chest. “Marian,
the bookroom.”

“Oh, but, Percy,” she began, “you must understand about
lunch—”

“The bookroom,” he repeated.

She opened her mouth to protest, but Lord Ingraham put
his hand on her shoulder and she closed it.

“Percy,” he began, “before you take her off, let me
tell you how much I am enjoying my visit with you and your family. Such warmth,
such friendliness! I own I do not know when I have laughed as much.”

Percy could only gape at him in surprise. “My family?”
he repeated.

“Oh, yes, and especially Marian and Alistair. How you
must enjoy the pleasure of their company. I truly envy you.”

Marian marveled at the diplomat’s art. Under the
protection of Lord Ingraham, she looked at her brother, who was looking back at
her with an expression less perilous than the one that greeted her.

“I do enjoy their company, despite their hey-go-mad
ways,” Percy said, relaxing, and for a moment Marian saw the brother she
remembered, the one less burdened with care. She almost said something, but
reconsidered. This could be one of those times to remain silent and let another
take the lead.

Lord Ingraham did not fail her. “And if you would, if
you had the time before dinner, could I make a request?”

“Certainly, sir. Only ask.”

“That chestnut in your stable. The one with a blaze?
Could you show him to me? I want a good horse, and I like the looks of that
one, provided, of course, Lady Wynswich will consent to part with him.”

Percy’s interview with Marian was forgotten. “Only let
me put on my riding boots, and we’ll try out that horse. I think a ride about
the place would be welcome, that is, if you don’t mind the rain.”

“Not at all. People tell me that Devon is lovely, even
when it’s wet.”

Percy looked at his sister, coaxed a smile out of her,
and started for the stairs. “You, sir, have been listening too long to Marian.
I’ll be right back.”

Lord Ingraham seemed to remember himself and removed
his hand from Marian’s shoulder. “There, brat, I saved your bacon. Promise me
you will exercise a little discretion this evening at table.”

“I will never say a word, sir,” she replied, and felt
suddenly shy. “You were magnificent, my lord. But do you really want to buy a
horse? You needn’t go that far.”

“I am looking for a prime goer. If I am posted to the United States, as I hope I am, I want to bring along my own mount. And frankly, my dear,
your papa’s stables were famous.”

“Yes, they were,” she agreed, pleased that for the
first time, the thought gave her no sadness. She tugged at his sleeve. “And do
you know, once the Prince Regent himself came here to look over Papa’s stable?”
She glanced about her for Percy, and lowered her voice. “But he was too much of
a nip-farthing to buy one.” She considered the subject. “And I do not think we
had a horse big enough to hold him up, now that I consider it.”

“Marian, do you always say what comes to mind?” asked
Lord Ingraham.

“Why, no, sir. Only just a moment ago when Percy was
acting the perfect dragon, I refrained. I thought you might rescue me.”

Gilbert threw back his head and laughed. “You are
utterly incorrigible. I wonder that anyone tolerates you.”

Marian released her grip on his sleeve, opened her
mouth, and then closed it again. Lord Ingraham gave her an inquiring look, but
she shook her head. “I shall be circumspect, sir. Good day to you.”

He took her arm. “Not so fast, my dear. Will you come
riding, too?”

She made a face. “I am such an indifferent horsewoman.
It was one of Papa’s crosses, I assure you, but horses are so big! I think any
horse I rode would feel my fear and bite me out of spite. Thank you, no, sir.”

“I wish I could teach you to ride, Marian.”

Marian darted away from him. “Unless that is your
Christmas wish, sir, it will not come true. And now, farewell. I have other
things to attend to.” She started up the stairs, go halfway up, and leaned over
the railing. “But thank you, Gil, for . . . for everything.” She laughed. “Only
think what your friends would say if you were caught tutoring a schoolroom chit
in riding! You know they would laugh.”

“I’m already thinking about my friends,” he replied
mildly, and kissed his hand to her. “Hurry, brat, before your brother comes
back and changes his mind and hauls you off to the horrors of the bookroom.”

Marian changed quickly into dry clothes and wrapped a
towel about her hair. Mama was asleep in her room. Marian heard Percy and Lord
Ingraham in the front hall again, and then the door closed. Sir William was
nowhere in sight.

“Ariadne? Ariadne?” she asked softly as she knocked on
her sister’s door. “Go away.”

Marian entered her sister’s room. It was no more than
she expected. Ariadne sat drooping in the window seat. Marian watched her for a
moment—so still, so delicate—and felt a tug of irritation. Dear, dearest
Ariadne, she thought, sometimes you do so remind me of Mama. This is a time for
action, not vapors.

She almost spoke her thoughts out loud, but
reconsidered. I should be silent. That is what Gil would be.

Quietly she entered the room and sat down in the window
seat across from her sister. She wrapped her arms around her knees and just sat
there.

Ariadne’s eyes were red. She held a handkerchief to her
nose and blew it every now and then, little dainty sniffles.

“Oh, for the Lord’s sake, Ariadne, give it a good blow,”
Marian said finally, casting aside her brief hold on diplomacy.

With a look half-mutinous, half-pitiful, Ariadne blew
her nose until her curls shook.

“That’s better,” Marian said. “Now, what are we to do?”

“I do not know what we can do,” exclaimed Ariadne in
tragic accents. “Mama has told the vicar that I am to entertain an offer from
Sir William. I am sure Sir William lurks below; I dare not leave my room.”

“Oh, stuff,” Marian said prosaically. “Sir William is
far too fat to lurk.”

“It was merely a figure of speech,” Ariadne said. “Marian,
Sam will never offer for me now. You know he is too timid.”

“Then we must stiffen his spine . . . some way or
other.”

Both sisters fell silent. Marian unwrapped her hair and
began to comb her fingers through it.

Ariadne got up and came back to the window seat with a
brush. “You will snarl your hair something wretched. Mare,” she said, and
started to brush it. She applied herself diligently to the task, humming as she
brushed, and soon Marian’s hair fell, straight and gleaming, to her waist. Ariadne
kissed the top of her sister’s head and sat down.

Marian fingered the ends of her hair, coaxing a curl
where there was none. “Ariadne, tell me truthfully, in words with bark: am I
even a little pretty?”

The question surprised them both. Ariadne looked at her
in amazement.

“I mean, I know I do not have the Wynswich looks,”
Marian stumbled on as she felt her face grow red, “but do you think I am
attractive?”

For a moment the light came back into Ariadne’s eyes.
She leaned against the dormer wall and regarded her sister for several long
moments. “I have always thought you were pretty, Mare. True, your hair is
black, but what is that to anything? It is so long and thick. And do you not
admire blue eyes? They are so much more interesting than brown. And you have
such a lively way about you.” Ariadne tilted her head to continue her perusal. “In
truth, you look a great deal like Mama, back before she took to her bed every
time the wind blew or anyone made demands. I would say you are pretty.” She
kissed Marian again. “Goose, what is it? Are you going to catch a husband so I
do not have to? Is that it? Too bad there is no one here for both of us!”

Marian drew up her dignity. “You know I have no wish
ever to marry, and besides, my dear, you already have someone who loves you
amazingly. The matter simply must be brought to a head. I believe I will think
on it.”

Ariadne smiled for the first time as she pulled Marian
to her feet. “Then go along with you and think! You were always better at that
than anyone in this disordered household, excepting Percy, of course.”

“Of course,” agreed Marian, “although I cannot imagine
what maggot was in his head to bring us Sir William Clinghorn on a platter.”

The mention of Sir William brought the frown back to
Ariadne’s face. “Oh, Marian, do apply yourself.”

She applied herself all afternoon in her room, adding a
little more wood to the fire than she usually permitted herself, resting her
stockinged feet on the grate, and pulling her skirts up to her knees to catch
the little drafts of heat that billowed up.

Think as she would, the matter of giving unsought
advice to the parish vicar was a tangle she could not resolve. For most of the
afternoon, she found herself thinking instead of Gilbert Ingraham.

Such a life he had led. I have been no farther than
Lyme Regis on occasion, and once to London, she thought. And he has been to the
United States of America on a special mission, in a desperate sea battle,
shipwrecked and cast ashore on foreign soil. How blue his eyes are. And Percy
says he is an earl, and Mama says he is exalted, but he is ever so much fun,
and not at all stuffy. And he is tall and calm and rational and orderly and
entirely what I would imagine a diplomat to be.

When the wood was ashes, she did not add another log.
Marian wrapped herself in her favorite blanket and lay down. I shall think
better this way, she thought as her eyes closed.