Marian's Christmas Wish (9 page)

The room was in shadow when she woke, but it was not
the shadow of night. She folded her arms across her stomach and listened. The
rain had stopped and there was the softest sound of snow falling. She threw
back the blanket and ran to the window.

Snow cast its gray and white shadows all over Covenden
Hall. It fell straight and heavy, and covered the mud of the front drive,
turning the soggy ground into something magical. Marian closed her eyes and
listened. I can truly truly hear snow fall. I wonder if Ariadne knows that you
can hear snow? As she pulled on her shoes and tried to smooth the wrinkles from
her dress, she decided that it would not be a matter of interest to Ariadne.

Marian’s stomach rumbled; she wondered what kind of
mood Cook was in. She tiptoed down the backstairs to the kitchen and looked
about her in satisfaction. The Christmas pudding, wrapped and rewrapped in
cheesecloth, steamed in its pudding pot. A tray of ginger cookies tempted
Marian. She took one and bit into it, uttering a little cry of delight.

Cook shook a wooden spoon at her as she ate another and
then another.

“Cook,” she asked, her mouth full, “will you make
toffee and marchpane?”

“You know that I will,” assured Cook, and then glanced
about her. “Only do not tell Sir William Clinghorn. He would call it a fearful
extravagance.”

Marian swallowed. “Whatever do you mean? Why should it
matter to him?”

It was all the avenue Cook needed. “Such nerve I never
hope to see,” she exclaimed. “Who should walk up and down in here this
afternoon, like the devil in Job, peeking in pots and pans, looking in the pantry,
and all the time cluck-clucking about waste and what he calls ‘Wynswich
management?’

Marian put back a ginger biscuit, her appetite gone. “Oh,
Cook, it is not true!”

Cook glared back. “Only ask Billings, if you doubt me!
He will tell you a tale of Sir William snooping about in the wine cellar even.
He thought to remove a Richelieu ‘73, but you know how Billings gets when there
is iron in his gizzard.”

“Oh, dear,” Marian said. Visions of Billings defending
his wine cellar waved in front of her eyes.

“And the parlormaid tells me that man has already
sifted through the linen closets. And all this while Lord Wynswich was out
riding with the tall man.”

The other servants had been listening. They gathered
about the long table, nodding and adding their mites to the conversation.
Marian heard them all, nodding and cluck-clucking herself in all the
appropriate pauses, but her thoughts were elsewhere.

How dare that wart act as though he already owned Covenden
Hall? It would be a long dinner and a much longer evening. She wished herself
in the wine cellar next to the Richelieu.

Sir William had done his work well. A subdued group of
Wynswiches gathered in comparative order for dinner and were only five minutes
late, Alistair breathing heavy and bringing up the rear as he straightened his
neckcloth.

Sir William snapped open his watch when Billings, his face wooden, announced dinner. He waggled his finger at Lady Wynswich. “Punctuality,
my dear lady, is a gift from heaven. You fail your children when you do not
enforce it.”

Lady Wynswich could only stare. Alistair began to
cough. He ran to the window and flung up the sash, breathing deeply as the snow
settled into the room. When he turned around again, all eyes were upon him.
Alistair closed the window and looked at them. “It was merely a touch of . . .
of . . .”

“Insanity?” Marian filled in helpfully.

Sir William stared back, goggle-eyed. “There is
nothing, nothing, I say, that would compel me to sever my ties here faster than
the thought of nurturing the hobgoblin of insanity in my bosom.”

Lady Wynswich uttered an inarticulate moan. Percy
raised his eyebrows and began advancing on his sister.

She was saved by Lord Ingraham, who came bursting into
the room, pulling on his coat. He stopped immediately, gave his coat another
twitch, and became a diplomat again. “Do excuse my tardiness, Lady Wynswich,”
he began. “I lay down on that marvelous feather bed and quite forgot about the
time. And then I lay there, just listening to the snow. Sir William, do not you
find Covenden Hall refreshing?”

Sir William was left with no recourse but to bow,
creak, and smile. He pocketed his watch and held out his arm to Lady Wynswich.
Percy followed with Ariadne, as Lord Ingraham appropriated Marian.

“My dear Miss Wynswich,” he said as he tucked Marian’s
arm in his, “you will forgive my gaff?”

She hung back from the dinner procession and stood on
tiptoe to whisper, “You did that on purpose! I would wager that you are never
late to anything. And didn’t I hear someone just waiting on the stairs?”

He bowed. “Sir William is a terror for punctuality.
When I saw Alistair running for the dining room like he was rounding a wicket,
I knew that he—and you—would require assistance”

He chuckled, and looked about him to make sure no one
else was listening. “The impulsive shade of Bertram Wynswich must be watching
me, too! That’s the first time I ever took off my coat once I was out of my
room and on my way to dinner, but it seemed like the only way to help Alistair.”

He bowed. “Consider it a gesture in the spirit of
Christmas, when charity should be extended, even to little brothers.”

Marian patted his sleeve and smoothed out a wrinkle. “Are
you
never
at a loss?”

He gazed down at her and there was a peculiar look in
his eyes. She thought perhaps his cravat was too tight. “I am at a loss now, my
dear, and have been for some twenty-four hours. Now, close your mouth, for I
will say no more on that subject. And I advise you to only open your mouth for
the food.”

Dinner was a near-run thing. Marian did as she was bid.
maintaining a discreet silence. Even when Sir William began to eye her plate as
she put away dish after dish, she said nothing. Sir William was left to murmur,
“Prodigious,” under his breath, before turning his whole attention to Ariadne,
who answered him prettily enough but kept her eyes on the plate before her, and
pushed around her food.

Tiring of that finally, Sir William directed his
conversation to his host. He moved himself back from the table and rested his
hands on his paunch. “Percy, I spent an afternoon in your library.”

Percy smiled. “It was Papa’s pride, Sir William. There
is none like it in Devon, I am sure.”

“Yes, I found something quite out of the ordinary
there, myself,” agreed Lord Ingraham. “Only this morning.”

“Did you, my lord?” Sir William purred and then
pounced. “Well, Percy, do you know what I discovered in your library?”

He paused for effect and looked at them each in turn,
his stare landing last on Lady Wynswich.

“I found Rabelais,” he concluded, his voice full of
accusation.

Lady Wynswich stared back, her mouth a perfect O. “I am
sure I do not know how it got there. Sir William,” she declared when she could
command her voice. “But you know that in the country, little woodling creatures
do sometimes invade even the best of homes in the winter. I shall speak to the
parlormaid in the morning.”

The silence was stunning. Marian gripped the seat of
her chair, knowing that if she looked at Lord Ingraham or made even the
slightest sound, she would lose all countenance and disgrace herself for all
time. She knew that Lord Ingraham was struggling, for she heard an inarticulate
sound deep in his throat.

“Mama, it is a French author,” Percy said, with only
the slightest quaver.

The magic word had been spoken, the word that unleashed
Sir William Clinghorn. “Ah, madam, and such a book he wrote! I wonder that you
would pollute the library with it. Ladies have been known to read it and faint.”

“But I did not faint,” Marian said into the large
silence that followed his pronouncement. “I thought it quite humorous.”

All color drained from Sir William’s ample cheeks. “Good
God, Lady Wynswich, what is this?”

Marian raised her chin and looked him right in the eye.
“It was almost as entertaining as Boccaccio’s
Decameron,
but not half as fun as Chaucer
and that wonderful housewife of Bath.” She turned to Lord Ingraham. “Did you
not say you were from Bath, Lord Ingraham? I daresay it has changed since
Chaucer’s time.”

He did not fail her. “Indeed, Miss Wynswich, and it is
lovely this time of year. You would particularly enjoy the carolers.” He
directed his attention to his hostess. “Lady Wynswich, is there the possibility
of shopping hereabouts? I need to purchase some Christmas items, myself, now
that Marian reminds me.”

The conversation creaked into gear again and lurched on
for the remainder of that course, Lord Ingraham regaling those assembled with
the events of his last Christmas, spent in St. Petersburg.

Marian opened her mouth once to enter the fray again,
but a discreet elbow from Lord Ingraham reduced her to silence. She glanced at
him. She wouldn’t have thought such a big, comfortable-looking man to have such
sharp elbows.

Marian remained in silence, not even eating, thinking
about other dinners, dinners where Ariadne and Mama would discuss some nuance
of fashion or county gossip, and she and Papa would wrangle with each other
over something one or the other had read. Percy would join in, when he was
home, and they would sit at the dining-room table long after Ariadne and Mama
had left to other pursuits. Papa would push back the plates, and the candle
would gutter low while Marian opened books on the table and argued.

She glanced at Percy, who also sat quietly, twirling
his glass by the stem, watching her. Percy, she thought as she smiled at him, I
wish you could remember this side of Papa as well as I do. Papa was improvident
and shocking in many ways, I suppose, but he loved us, and, oh, I am starved
for his conversation.

Nothing about Percy’s demeanor indicated that he shared
a single reminiscence. He continued gazing at her thoughtfully. As if wondering
how to dispose of me, she reasoned to herself. And who can blame him? Why am I
such a bagpipe? So contentious? She sank lower in her chair and resolved to
quit the family circle when the meal was complete.

Soon the conversation was spinning off on its own, and
Lord Ingraham took himself out of the lists. He finished his dinner as Sir
William prosed on about economy as the backbone of English society.

“I didn’t mean to quell you entirely,” he whispered to
Marian finally when she remained sunk in silence.

“It is nothing. I was merely thinking . . . about Papa.”
She raised her eyes to his. “When Papa was at table, there were so many things
to talk about.”

“Great ideas?” Lord Ingraham asked gently. “Not whether
Lady X dampens her petticoat, or why Lady Z’s latest baby resembles the Regent?”

She nodded, but said nothing more. When Lady Wynswich
finally signaled to her and Ariadne that it was time to leave the table to the
gentlemen, she rose with gratitude.

Lord Ingraham rose, too, as the ladies made ready to
withdraw. “Marian,” he said, “don’t disappear before we’re through in here.”

“I am sure Percy would prefer it.”

“Don’t,” he repeated, “just don’t.”

While the men lingered at the table over their brandy,
Marian bore in silence her mother’s scold in the parlor. “Marian, I do not
understand what maggot riddles your brain at times. If we can fix matters with
Sir William, and Ariadne does as she ought, we can all be comfortable again.”

“Except for Ariadne,” was Marian’s only reply.

Ariadne said nothing, only retreated to a corner of the
room.

And why do you not leap into the struggle, my dear
sister? Marian asked herself as she listened to her mother out of one ear. Are
you so passive that you will allow yourself to be pulled into this distasteful
marriage? Is Covenden Hall that important?

The thought was disquieting in the extreme. With a sigh
of her own, Marian found her workbasket where she had tossed it the night
before, and hitched herself close to a branch of candles, wondering how it was
possible for threads to tangle so amazingly all by themselves. It would be an
evening’s serious application to straighten them all out.

The gentlemen joined them a half-hour later, Sir
William much rosier from an application of Papa’s smuggled brandy. Even Percy
was smiling. Out of the corner of her eye, Marian noticed Lord Ingraham look
her way. There was no chair near hers, and he did not seek to join her company,
particularly after Alistair flung himself down on the floor beside her and
pulled out a handful of snarled yarns.