Marian's Christmas Wish (10 page)

“Mare,” he announced to the room, “how d’ye muddle
these things so completely?”

On another evening, she would have made a grab at his
hair and pelted the skeins at him, one at a time. She sat and watched her
brother. “I suppose I must apply myself, Alistair.”

Percy started and looked toward her.

From his place seated beside his host, Lord Ingraham
remarked, “Alistair, to some it is given to do other things. Perhaps this is
your sister’s case?”

“Exactly so, Lord Ingraham,” said Lady Wynswich,
relieving Marian of any reply. “And so I tell Marian,” she enlarged, speaking
to him but avoiding even a glance in his direction. “She could learn to knot a
fringe, or paint a watercolor like Ariadne, or even practice on the pianoforte.
She has a beautiful voice.”

“Lady Wynswich, there are even accomplishments beyond
those,” he replied.

“Not for a lady,” Lady Wynswich announced, and her tone
invited no disagreement.

There was a general pause while everyone waited for
someone else to begin a conversation.

Sir William looked about him. “I say, does anyone in
this household play chess?”

He asked the question with the air of one already
doomed to disappointment, as if chess were as far removed from the better homes
of Devon as Ultima Thule from the Antipodes.

Marian put down her yarns and sat up straighter. “I
play, Sir William.”

Sir William only smiled at her indulgently. “I had a
real game in mind, Miss Wynswich, although I am sure you play prettily.”

“Prettily,” Alistair said in a low voice. “You’ll be
bloodied, drawn, and quartered.”

“Hush, Alistair,” Marian said. “I play a real game,
sir. Only let me get the pieces and show you.” She put down her workbasket and
moved to the cupboard where the pieces were kept.

Lady Wynswich cleared her throat. “My dear Sir William,
Marian is a most indifferent player. Aren’t you, my dear?”

Marian’s fingers froze on the chessboard. She turned
around. Ariadne watched her, a guarded expression in her eyes. She does not
want a scene, thought Marian. She never wants a scene. She glanced at Alistair.
He wants me to challenge this detestable man. She looked at Percy. And my
brother wishes me to Jericho. Her gaze shifted to Lord Ingraham. And what is in
your eyes? I wish I knew.

“Yes, Mama,” she replied in a low voice, “I am much too
indifferent.”

Sir William was willing to forgive. “Some morning, my
dear, when I have nothing else to do, I shall endeavor to instruct you. It will
be well worth your time, if you are interested in chess.”

“Marian would love that, Sir William. It would be such
a treat for you, wouldn’t it, daughter?” said Lady Wynswich. “But now, I am
sure Percy would be delighted to challenge you, Sir William. Perhaps, Marian,
you would see to the tea tray? I cannot imagine what is keeping the parlormaid.”

Other than the fact that we let her go six months ago,
thought Marian, I cannot imagine either. “Yes, Mama, I will see to the tea,”
she said, and beat a hasty retreat into the hall.

She leaned against the wall, fists clenched, waiting
for her anger to recede. I cannot go back in there again, she told herself, I
simply cannot. And I cannot endure one more minute of this horrid Christmas.

The door opened and Lord Ingraham came into the hall.
He nodded to her. “I seem to recall that tea trays are notoriously heavy. But
what’s this? Marian, my goodness.”

She rubbed at the tears that spilled down her cheeks. “It
is nothing, my lord. I am being what Mama calls ‘fractious and distempered.’”

Before she could move away, he took a handkerchief,
wiped her eyes, and then put it over her nose. “Blow, brat. Much better.” He
leaned one hand on the wall so she could not bolt. “I have a suspicion. Tell me
if it is true.”

She nodded, but raised her eyes no further than the
watch fob on his waistcoat.

“I want to know . . . Marian Wynswich, look at me.” He
put his finger under her chin and forced her to look him in the face. “Are you
not permitted to win?”

She shook her head. “Mama reminded me only yesterday
that I must not even beat Alistair anymore, now that he is growing up.” She
grabbed the handkerchief and blew her nose fiercely. “And I could beat Sir
William to flinders! I know I could!” Marian sobbed out loud.

Lord Ingraham took her by the hand and pulled her
farther from the parlor door. He sat her down on the staircase and said not a
word as she cried, blew her nose, and pocketed his handkerchief.

“I’ll return it tomorrow,” she said. “Forgive me, Lord
Ingraham.”

“The last time I checked, my name was still Gilbert,”
he said mildly. “Gil to you, as I recall.”

Marian managed a watery smile in his direction. “Very
well, then, Gil. I do not know what has gotten into me this day.” The stairs
were cold; she inched closer to him. “And this is not at all the Christmas I
imagined.”

“Nor I,” he replied, and moved to put his arm around
her.

Before he could quite accomplish it, Marian leaned
forward, her head turned to one side, listening intently.

“Marian, I—”

“Hush, Gil,” she ordered. “Oh, do listen!”

The sound was a murmur at first, a murmur so low she
wondered if her ears were deceiving her. At first she could hear only Lord
Ingraham’s quiet breathing close to her ear, and then the indistinct hum turned
into music. She rose and started toward the door as the music turned into
words.

“Our mighty Lord He looked on us and bade us awake and
pray.”

She turned back to Lord Ingraham, who still sat on the
stairs, a bemused expression on his face. “Oh, can you not hear it? ‘The life
of man is but a span, and cut down in its flower,’” she sang, even as her eyes
misted over again and she ached for Papa. “‘We’re here today, tomorrow gone,
the creatures of an hour.’”

“Marian,” he began again, and started toward her, his
hands held out.

Singing louder, she took his hand, even as the parlor
door opened and Alistair came into the hall, a smile on his face. “‘My song is
done, I must be gone, I stay no longer here.’ Oh, sing, Gil!”

She flung the door open wide and pulled Lord Ingraham
after her into the snowy evening. The parish choir stood there, bundled to the
eyebrows, candles brave in the breeze. The little ones bobbed and curtsied and
Marian clapped her hands.

“‘God bless you all, both great and small.’ Sing,
Marian,” teased Lord Ingraham as he sang and took her hand again.

“‘And send you a glad New Year,’” she finished.

“Bravo, bravo,” said Alistair from the hallway. “Mare,
move out of the way. You’re blocking the view.”

Marian motioned the choir into the hall and followed
with Lord Ingraham, who still held tight to her hand.

“Better?” he whispered in her ear.

Marian grabbed him and hugged him. He laughed in
surprise and then picked her up and planted a loud kiss on her forehead. The
younger carolers whooped, even as their elders shushed them.

Marian laughed. “Put me down, sir,” she commanded as
Percy and Mama came into the hall. “Not until you kiss him, too, miss,” said
the boldest caroler. Marian rested her hands on Lord Ingraham’s shoulders and
spoke softly to him. “Oh, I could not. It is too forward, even for Marian
Wynswich.” She took his face between her hands and rubbed her cheek against
his. He smelled faintly of brandy and of nothing more than Gilbert Ingraham.
She took a deep breath. It was altogether pleasant. “And now you must put me
down, sir,” she said into his ear.

“Very well,” he agreed, his voice as soft as hers and a
trifle unsteady. “For now,” he added.

He was obviously a bit mizzled with brandy. Marian
couldn’t even be sure she had heard him, but she did not mind. It was Christmas
again, and nothing else mattered.

The choir members looked at one another, nodded, and
began “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen,” in at least three different keys, which
blended miraculously into one by the end of the first verse.

Marian turned around and watched the snow coming in the
front door, deckling her hair until it was peppered with white like Lord
Ingraham’s. Everywhere the world was white. She closed her eyes and savored the
moment, grateful that this year the wreath on the door was green and red,
instead of black.

She remembered Lord Ingraham, who stood so close to
her. “Do you know, sir,” she whispered, “you really should be home with your
family.”

“Not this year, Marian,” was all he would say.

The choir sang another song and then the leader held
out the subscription book to Percy.

“What custom is this?” whispered Lord Ingraham.

“Oh, do you not do this in Wiltshire? The choir goes
about collecting. It is our tithe for listening to them all year.” Marian
leaned closer. “Even when they are not worth hearing. They come here first
because Covenden Hall is the biggest house. Whatever Percy gives will set the
challenge for the other householders.”

“And they go on?”

“Yes, and sing and sing and end up at last at the
vicarage, where they count the money.”

“Marian, go get on your boots,” Lord Ingraham said
suddenly. “We’re about to join the choir.”

She looked up at him in delight. “I have always wanted
to, and never was I permitted. Oh, do you think
...”

“I can square it with Percy. We need a breath of air.”

Marian excused herself and hurried up the stairs as the
choir sang “Master in the House.” She paused only long enough at the top of the
stairs to see Lord Ingraham speak to Percy, and to see her brother nod. She
danced into her room, tugged on her boots, found another wool dress to pull
over the one she wore, and grabbed up her cloak and a muffler.

She ran down the stairs as Lord Ingraham was ascending
them.

“We’ll catch up with the choir,” he said.

She sat down on the steps to wait for him. Cook brought
up ginger cakes and figs from the kitchen as the choir members talked among
themselves and backed toward the door.

Marian’s stomach rumbled loud and long. She stood up to
make sure that Cook had a few cakes left on her tray.

“Was that you? Good God, Marian, Sir William is right
about your ‘prodigious’ appetite.” Lord Ingraham came down the stairs, pulling
on his overcoat with its many capes.

She blushed. “It has been two hours since dinner. I am
famished! And Cook knows those are my favorites.”

He reached over the banister and plucked a handful of
little cakes from the tray, which Cook held shoulder-high, and handed them to
Marian, keeping one for himself. “We cannot have you fainting with hunger in
the Devon countryside. Only think how that would reflect on the family.”

She ate the cakes as he buttoned his coat.

Percy sauntered over. “Lord Ingraham, are you sure that
you wish to take this distempered female off my hands for the space of an
evening?”

“It is purely selfish, my friend,” the diplomat
replied. “I am restless and would like a walk. Marian will see that I return to
the right hearth.”

Percy nodded. “Make sure that she behaves, my lord.”

Lord Ingraham began to wind his muffler about his
throat. “You would ask a miracle?”

Marian laughed and took the muffler ends from him. “You
are both rudesbys! Bend down, Gil. You must wind this around your face, as high
up as you can, to protect your cheek.”

“Yes, your worship,” Ingraham said. “Percy, is she
always so demanding?”

“Always,” he answered. Marian looked at her brother
anxiously, but there was a light lurking in his eyes. “She orders us all about
shamelessly.”

“And you permit this?” Ingraham quizzed.

Percy bowed and then pulled the cloak’s hood up around
his sister’s face. “Very often, my lord, she is absolutely right. Have fun,
Mare.”

The air was alive with swirling snowflakes that seemed
to blow in all directions, as if the wind couldn’t decide where to take them.
Lord Ingraham offered his arm to Marian, who tucked herself close. “Mind that
you do not take excessively large steps, for I could not keep up.”

He slowed obligingly. “Do you know, my dear, I am so
bored with sitting in stuffy parlors and whiling away the evenings. It smacks
of Ghent and dull treaty talks, and being pleasant to all people, and saying
the correct thing until I am ready to call them all out—lord, princes,
ambassadors, and Americans.”

“But you would never, never do that.”

He shook his head. “No, although the Americans are a
special trial—such fractious people, Marian. How could we ever have thought
them English? I am learning to be silent, even when I do not wish to be.
Especially when I do not wish to be.”

They continued and Marian thought about what he had
said. “That was for me, wasn’t it?” she asked quietly as they approached the
next great house.

He slowed his stride. “You will be breathless if I do
not remember. Yes, I suppose it is for you. And it is for me.”

Marian stood still. “Oh, but you never say the wrong
thing, or do the wrong thing, or embarrass your relatives, or become a
laughingstock to your friends.” When he said nothing, she peered closer. “Do
you?”

“I might have said no yesterday, but today I am not so
sure. Maybe I am not so sure about . . . Well, never mind.” He teetered on the
edge of saying something more, but did not.

“Look now, the door is opening. Hurry up, brat.”

He broke into a run, and Marian chased after him,
grabbing at his coattails. She arrived, out of breath, in time to join in
singing the last verse of “Good King Wenceslas,” to the doctor, who was
standing in the doorway while his wife buttoned his overcoat. The doctor looked
at the tithe book that the caroler thrust at him, filled in an amount, dropped
his coins in the box, and hurried down the steps, muttering something about
babies not waiting.

He stopped long enough to point a finger at one of the
tenors. “You, Jim Plant, d’ye promise before these witnesses to sing on key
four Sundays out of five?”

The tenor nodded as the others laughed. The doctor took
another coin from his pocket and flipped it at the man. “Then have a Merry
Christmas!”

Marian clapped her hands. She stood in front of Lord
Ingraham and straightened his muffler again. “Gil, would you not rather be
home?”

He pulled the strings of her hood tighter about her
face and smiled down at her. “No, for the hundredth time, you nosy baggage, I
would rather be here.”

She was not satisfied, but the choir was cutting across
the doctor’s lawn, heading toward the home of Colonel John Quatermain, Ret.
She grabbed his hand and pulled him after her.

By the time the choir reached the environs of Picton,
it was in better tune than on many a Sunday. The tithing box had a pleasant
jingle to it as the carolers hurried along, already anticipating the remainder
of the evening in front of their own hearths.

By now Marian had lost one of her mittens, and her bare
hand was deep in one of Lord Ingraham’s pockets. “For that is what happens when
you insist upon wearing a cloak. Marian, and have no pockets of your own. I’ll
share.” He insisted upon putting his arm about her so she would not pull her
hand out. and as he was adding to her own warmth, she made no objection.

The snow had ended an hour before. They trailed along
behind the other carolers and Marian stopped and looked up at the sky, where
the stars had come out in a frosty twinkle. “Oh, Gil. how beautiful,” she
exclaimed.

“I agree,” he said, but he was looking at her and not
the stars.

She prodded him. “No. look up there! I know that is
Orion, because Percy says he hunts only in a winter sky.” She sighed and drew
in closer to Lord Ingraham. “It is almost perfect.”

“And what would make it perfect?” whispered her escort
in her ear.

His breath tickled her ear and Marian felt a little
ripple of pleasure down her back. It was accompanied by an odd feeling, one
that she had never experienced before, one that warmed her toes. She would have
to ask Ariadne about it. She withdrew her hand from Lord Ingraham’s pocket.

“Sam Beddoe offering for Ariadne. Before it is too
late.”

Ingraham only smiled and nudged her into motion again. “Let
us see what we shall see at the vicarage,” was all he would say.

The vicarage was full of carolers when they arrived,
out of breath from running the last block.

Sam welcomed them in. “Marian! How did you convince
Percy—”

“It was Gil’s doing,” she said, pulling him forward. “Mr.
Beddoe, this is Lord Gilbert Ingraham, Earl of . . . Dear me, I forgot.”

“I sometimes wish I could, Marian. Earl of Collinwood,
Mr. Beddoe. My seat is in Wiltshire, near Bath.”

“Ah! Excellent country, my lord,” replied the vicar. “Or
so I remember it.”

“I, too, sir. I am seldom there, what with the world
situation as sticky as it is. If Collinwood falls down about my ears someday, I
can blame Bonaparte.”

The vicar laughed politely, as he was expected to, and
welcomed them into the parlor, where the choir sat about the hearth counting
their money and downing Christmas brew.

Lord Ingraham intercepted a pint pot that one of the
baritones passed to Marian. He took a sip and shook his head at Marian.

“Not for you, brat. Your brother would have my ears,
hooves, and tail if I brought you back bosky to Covenden Hall. Sir,” he
inquired of the vicar, “have you something else for members of the infantry?”

Marian watched as Ingraham and the vicar moved toward
the sideboard, and then stood their, heads together, over a glass of ratafia.
The vicar nodded and motioned the earl to follow him down the hall.

“I like that,” Marian said out loud. ‘There goes my
refreshment.” She went to the sideboard and retrieved another drink, wishing
she could follow the gentlemen down the hall. They were already deeply engaged
in conversation as they walked along, and she knew her presence was neither
wanted nor required.

“I shall be discreet,” she said into her glass, “as
seldom I am.”

She returned to the parlor as the choir members
pocketed their bounty, wished each other Good Christmas, called their farewells
down the hall to the vicar, and left for their own homes. Marian came closer to
the fire and added enough wood to warm her feet through her boots. How still
the parlor was. The clock ticked over the mantelpiece, managing somehow to
sound self-conscious in the quiet room. Only five days to Christmas.

Marian listened for Lord Ingraham’s footsteps,
wondering why it was that she already knew what they sounded like. She sighed
and wondered why he was so opposed to Christmas by his own fireside. For even
if they do not know the extent of his injury, she reasoned, surely it does not
matter. Already, in less time than a day, that scar was a matter she seldom considered,
even when she looked at him.

The clock chimed eleven. The sofa invited her, so she
curled up one end of it, carefully arranging her cloak over herself. She was
asleep in moments.

“Marian, wake up, you goose.”

She opened her eyes. Lord Ingraham was bending over the
end of the couch, looking down at her. “Thank goodness,” he said, his ready
smile lurking. “I was about to resort to a mirror to ascertain if you still
breathed.”

She sat up. “Silly! I am merely a sound sleeper.” She
looked about her. The room was wreathed in shadows. The smell of the vicar’s
Christmas punch lingered in the room, mingling with the garland of greenery
that warmed itself over the mantel. “How pleasant it smells here. Oh, Gil, isn’t
Christmas simply the best time?”

She thought he would return some casual answer, but he
sat down on the sofa and regarded her with some seriousness. “It used to be the
veriest pleasure. Papa would be home from one country or another . . . Oh, yes.
we are a family of diplomats. Mama was very like you, decorating everything
that stood still and overseeing every detail. It was always so much more
pleasant to be home than to be at school . . .” His voice trailed off. He
looked down at his hands. “Perhaps I do not spend enough time at home.”