Marian's Christmas Wish (6 page)

“It always hurts. The surgeons tell me I can do nothing
for it.” He made no move to pull back from her fingers.

She inched her chair closer, her eyes intent on the
burn. “Do you know,” she began slowly, “I have concocted a salve that I use on
animals. It is remarkably efficacious and
...”
She stopped and took her hand away from his face as though it burned still. “Whatever
must you think?” she said, and then was silent, wishing herself anywhere but in
that quiet library where the tall man regarded her with a look remarkably like
amusement.

Marian closed her eyes. If Mama learns of this, she
will plunge the entire household into spasms, Percy will shoot me, and Ariadne
will swoon. She opened her eyes, and the man continued to regard her. He leaned
back and crossed his legs again. The slight smile on his face put a little
heart back into her and she took a deep breath.

“Forgive me. I cannot imagine why I did that.”

“Perhaps you were concerned?” he asked. “And Percy did
tell me you were singular, Miss Wynswich. Please don’t leave. I wish you would
tell me more about your salve for animals.”

Marian gripped her hands together in her lap. The room
felt warm and close, as if too many logs burned in the fireplace. She glanced
at the hearth. There were no logs at all. “It is merely something I put
together,” she said. “It works wondrously well on cuts and scrapes.”

“And do your patients tell you so?” he quizzed. “If
they do, then you are probably even more singular than Percy imagined.”

She relaxed. “You are bamming me, sir,” she protested. “But
I deserve it. Mama and Percy tell me that I am entirely too impulsive.” She sat
up straighter. “And, yes, I know it works well. My animals are able to sleep
and eat again.” She laughed. “Some of them even follow me about, which is a
sore trial at times.”

He joined in her laughter. “Which brings us, I suppose,
to your kittens. Did they survive their precipitous eviction?” He leaned toward
her in a conspiratorial fashion and she was irresistibly drawn to do the same. “Sir
William is a bit of a dog in the manger. He won’t even share a coach willingly,
which made our journey from Ghent rather a trial. How could we expect him to
suffer the confinement of a cat?”

Marian blushed. This was hardly a topic to discuss with
a gentleman. Even loyal Ariadne would throw up her hands in surrender and march
from the room, denying all kinship. Marian struggled on.

“Imagine, my lord, two more kittens were born on my
bed. When the rain stops, I will remove them all to the stables. And now, sir,
I really must leave you.” She rose, feeling absurdly small next to Gilbert
Ingraham. She admired the buttons on his waistcoat and then stepped back
quickly. She was standing much too close.

He bowed to her. “Miss Wynswich. I am pleased to have
made your acquaintance in daylight hours. If you have some of that salve, I
think I would like to try it. That is, if your dogs and cats won’t cut up stiff
at my intrusion.” He bowed again. “And I promise not to trail after you.”

She giggled. “If you promise, I will give you some. You
must apply it to your face at night, and it will loosen some of the tension of
the scar.” She raised her hands again to his face and then put them behind her
back. “As a rule, however, burns do not heal well. It is a sad fact, but true.”
Marian was backing toward the door as she spoke. “And, sir, forgive me for
being so forward. I seem to be making a habit of apology this morning. In your
case, I do mean it.”

He followed her to the door, moving slowly, as if
afraid she would bolt. “There is nothing to forgive, Miss Wynswich. Do you
know, most women look away like your mother, or speak of something else,
anything else. You are the first who has cared enough to offer help.”

He would have said more, but the door banged open and
Alistair hurtled into the room. “Marian, Cook has summoned us below. You know
what that means.”

He vanished as quickly as he had come, and Lord
Ingraham blinked in surprise. “Does he do nothing but run about?”

It was on the tip of her tongue to apologize for
Alistair and his rackety air, to beg forgiveness because the library was cold
and the furnishings shabby, to beg Lord Ingraham’s tolerance of their
eccentricities.

She did not. “Lord Ingraham, let me put it to you this
way: we are intent upon keeping Christmas this year and the pudding awaits.”

A smile played about his lips, and the wonder increased
in his eyes but he said nothing.

“We are all of us singular, my lord.”

The light in his eyes encouraged her. She took a deep
breath and stood as tall as she could. “Percy announces that we are poorer than
church mice. This could be our last Christmas together in this house. I plan to
enjoy it. You may enjoy it, too, and you had better like wishing on Christmas
pudding and caroling and dragging in the Yule log, and even getting a little
bosky on eggnog.”

His smile grew wider. “Pray go on, Miss Wynswich. I am
all ears.”

“Not discernibly,” she replied.

Alistair darted down the hall again, tugging Ariadne
after him. “Oh, hurry it, Mare. You know Cook won’t wait.”

Sir William puffed and chugged after Ariadne, but the
effort was too extreme. He abandoned the chase, shrugged to Gilbert Ingraham in
the library door, and let himself back into the gold saloon.

Marian waited until the saloon door shut. “If you wish
to stand on ceremony, Lord Ingraham, this is not the house to do it in. I am
going to make a wish on our Christmas pudding.”

She turned to go, but Gilbert Ingraham stopped her,
tucking her arm in his. “I haven’t done this in more years than I care to
claim. Lead on, Miss Wynswich.”

The kitchen smelled of citron and orange peel, mingled
with sultanas both golden and brown. Alistair loomed over the pot, stirring the
brown mass, his eyes closed, his lips moving. “Done,” he declared, and handed
the wooden paddle to Ariadne. Her face was serious, her eyes troubled, as she
stirred the pudding around and around.

Percy followed them down the stairs. He saw Lord
Ingraham waiting his turn by the hearth. “Marian, you promised me,” he said in
an undervoice to his little sister.

Ingraham bowed and released his hold on Marian. “And
she promised me a pudding wish, Percy. I suggest you go next, as I have to
consider the matter further.”

Marian held her breath and watched as a whole series of
objections paraded across Percy’s face. “Very well,” he said at last, and took
the spoon from Ariadne. He stirred it, his eyes on his little sister. She could
not read his expression, but her heart lightened as she watched him.

He made his wish, released the spoon, and it stood
upright in the pudding pot. The Wynswiches all said, “Ah!” at the sight of the
pudding well done. With an elaborate bow, Percy turned to his guest. “Lord
Ingraham, it is your turn. Marian will be last because she is still quite out
of my good graces.” He pulled out his pocket watch. “For at least another
fifteen minutes.”

Marian grabbed his arm, pulled him toward her, and
kissed his cheek. He winked at her, and her heart grew lighter still.

Lord Ingraham observed the proceedings, a thoughtful
expression on his face. He took the spoon, bent over the pot, and sniffed deep
of the pudding. “My God, this is magnificent,” he murmured. “I close my eyes?”

“Only if you want your wish to come true.” Ariadne’s
voice was so wistful that Marian’s heart drooped a bit.

“Oh, I do want it to come true,” Lord Ingraham said. “I
do, above all things.”

“And you mustn’t tell, at least, until it has come
true. Nobody tells,” explained Alistair. “At least, unless you tickle my
sisters to death and make them confess!”

“Alistair, really,” said Ariadne, coloring up prettily
and looking away.

“Very well, then.” Lord Ingraham closed his eyes and
stirred the pot. The smile on his face grew. As Marian watched him, she found
herself smiling along with him and then laughing out loud when he opened his
eyes, declared, “Done,” and took her hand and placed it over the spoon. “Make
it a good one,” he said.

She began to stir. She had planned all along to wish
for Ariadne and Sam, and Alistair. Even during the summer, when it was warm and
she was tired of black gowns, she had thought of the Christmas pudding and
planned a special wish for Percy.

Marian did none of these things. She closed her eyes
and stirred the spoon ‘round and ‘round with each word that came into her mind:
I wish Gilbert Ingraham will have the best Christmas.

Nuncheon with Sir William was an unrelieved tedium, so
breathtaking in scope that Marian resolved to give up food for Advent.

She had meant only to duck into the breakfast room,
where the Wynswiches took most of their meals, scavenge the sideboard for
bread and cold meat, and then prepare her kittens for a wet trip to the
stables. She knew Cook was still busy belowstairs readying the Christmas
pudding for steaming; the nooning could only be haphazard.

She erred. Cook had been at work early to devise a more
elegant repast. Lady Wynswich presided at the table, with Sir William at her
left and Lord Ingraham on her right.

“Come, come, daughter,” said her mother as Marian stuck
her head in the room. “Find yourself something and join us.”

Lady Wynswich’s tone commanded obedience. Marian
hurried to the sideboard, filled her plate, and moved to her usual place, which
would have put her next to Sir William.

Her mother took instant exception to this. “Marian,
Marian, how forgetful you are,” she exclaimed. “Over here by Lord Ingraham,
please! Ariadne—Elaine—will be along momentarily.” This last comment was
addressed to Sir William.

He paid little heed to his hostess: his eye was on
Marian’s plate, with its two slices of Cook’s thick bread, the mound of meat,
pink and steaming, the jellies, the creams. He looked at Lady Wynswich with
that tight little smile Marian was already beginning to dislike.

“Lady Wynswich, it is no wonder that your family is
hanging out over the chasm. When one’s daughters eat so much
...
I
mean,
what does it admit to economy?”

Marian blinked and looked at her plate. It was no more
than she usually ate, and even then, she knew she would be in the kitchen
before dinner, pleading more meat and bread to hold her over until the advanced
hour of six o’clock.

When Sir William continued to stare at her plate as
though it were alive and writhing about. Lady Wynswich spoke.

“Marian, my dear, perhaps you should return some of
that to the sideboard. Doesn’t our vicar Mr. Beddoe speak to us from the pulpit
about starving children in London?”

She stood her ground. “Mama, there is a starving child
here at Covenden Hall.”

Lord Ingraham made an odd noise deep in his throat and
brought his napkin hurriedly to his lips. “Sorry. I have a touch of dyspepsia
once in a while. Goodness, where are my manners?”

Marian looked at him. His eyes twinkled at her over the
napkin, and she knew it would not be safe to look again. Without a word, she
took her maligned plate to Lord Ingraham’s side and sat.

Sir William would not abandon his train of thought. He
shook his head at her and cast his whole attention upon his hostess. “Only
assure me, Lady Wynswich, that Elaine consumes more ladylike proportions?”

“Indeed she does,” replied Lady Wynswich. “She’ll give
you no cause to blush, Sir William.”

Satisfied, he returned to his soup.

Marian created a sandwich and cut it in half. “But do
you know, Sir William,” she said as she spread a dab of jelly on it. “I heard
Ariadne belch once. But it was only once, and she apologized so prettily
afterward. I do believe, sir, that there were tears in her eyes.”

Sir William choked over his soup and Lord Ingraham retreated
to the safety of his napkin again.

Her mother sat in stupefied silence as Marian daintily
cut her sandwich into tiny bites and ate them delicately off her fork. Sir
William continued to cough and sputter as Marian put down her knife and fork
and wiped her fingers neatly.

“Sir William, if you will raise both arms over your
head and breathe deeply, you will feel quite the thing again,” she advised
serenely.

“Marian,” said Lady Wynswich, her tone glacial. “That
is quite enough.”

“And so I was telling Sir William,” Marian continued.

Recovering sufficiently to draw a breath, Sir William
stared at Marian, who gave him her sunniest smile and took knife and fork to
the other half of her sandwich. He opened his mouth to speak, when Lord
Ingraham intervened.

“Lady Wynswich, these are charming watercolors on your
walls. How well they suit,” he said.

“Do they not?” agreed Lady Wynswich, eager to put
Marian’s food behind her. She would not look at Lord Ingraham, but cast her
eyes instead upon the paintings. “Ariadne painted those only this summer. She
is highly accomplished. Do you not agree, Sir William?”

Sir William gave the paintings only the briefest
scrutiny. “I, madam, am partial to oils,” he said, and then tittered. “Of
course, one becomes used to such delights in the great galleries of Europe, which, I am sad to say, have been so long closed to our fair isle by the
machinations of that evil beast Napoleon. Thank God he now resides on Elba.”

Marian stared at him in admiration. She opened her
mouth to compliment him on the grandeur of that sentence, when Lord Ingraham
trod upon her foot. The napkin came to his lips again. “Hush, brat,” he ordered
behind it.

“You should see Ariadne’s oils,” Lady Wynswich prevaricated,
and had the grace not to look in Marian’s direction, even though her next
comment was directed to her younger daughter. “Whatever is keeping our dear . .
. Elaine?”

“Ariadne has the headache and will not be down,” said
Marian calmly as she extracted her foot from under Lord Ingraham’s and crossed
her ankles.

Her mother paused with her fork in midair, smiled, but
did not look in Marian’s direction. “Then why did you not tell me, dear? I
would have seen to her at once.”

Marian chewed and swallowed. “Mama, it was never my
wish to interrupt your conversation. And I know you would not wish me to call
attention to myself.” Lady Wynswich was left with nothing to say. Lord Ingraham
filled in the gap with all the skill of the treaty table in Ghent. “Lady
Wynswich, such excellent soup! I do not know when I have had better.”

“It is but a simple fish soup, Lord Ingraham,” she
said, her eyes looking everywhere but at the diplomat.

Marian watched her mother, a frown on her face, and
then glanced at Gilbert Ingraham. She could see only his profile because she
sat on his right side. Her mother had the full effect of his scar, and she
would not look. Marian thought of Lord Ingraham’s words in the library, and she
burned with shame for her mother.

Lady Wynswich’s attention was drawn then to a commonplace
from Sir William.

Without thinking, Marian touched Lord Ingraham’s sleeve
and leaned toward him. “Thank you for your valiant rally,” she whispered, and
then lowered her eyes. “And please, please forgive my mother.”

“Forgiven already,” he whispered back. “One does become
inured, or so I am discovering.”

“Discovering what?” asked Lady Wynswich, her attention
drawn across the table again, even though she gave Lord Ingraham only the
briefest glance. “Marian,” she chided, “you know what Papa used to say: ‘Out
loud, or not at all.’”

“That is my doing,” apologized Lord Ingraham. “I merely
commented I am discovering what a thoroughly charming family you have. I am
also congratulating myself on the wisdom of accepting your son’s Christmas
invitation.”

“Have you not a wife and children of your own?” Marian
asked.

“Oh, no,” he replied, and then chuckled. “I seem to
have kept myself too busy in foreign places for such a complication. I have a
mother in Bath and two sisters near to her. We are Wiltshire folks, actually,
for there my estate is located.”

“Oh, but this is not so far, Lord Ingraham,” Lady
Wynswich said to the distant wall. “I wonder that you would choose us over a
holiday with your loved ones.”

“It is my choice this year,” he replied. “For all that
Percy and Sir William and I know we could be summoned to Belgium in a moment’s notice, although I suspect we were withdrawn for . . . other purposes. Vienna, perhaps. It is better if we stay together this holiday”

Lady Wynswich returned some vague answer and still
would not look at Lord Ingraham.

Marian felt the blood rush to her face. She yanked her
napkin off her lap and slapped it on the table, rising to her feet even as Lord
Ingraham stood up and took hold of her so she could not brush past him.

“Lady Wynswich,” he said as he tightened his grip on
Marian’s wrist, “Marian reminds me. She has promised to let me help her take
the kittens”—he bowed to Sir William—”your kittens, Sir William, to the
stables. You’ll excuse us both, I trust. I am confident that Sir William will
keep you tolerable good company. Come, Marian, you promised.”

Before
Lady
Wynswich could return either a protest or an
acquiescence, Marian found herself in the hall. Lord Ingraham did not release
his grip until they were on the stairs, and then he rested his hand on the
small of her back to continue her forward movement.

“Are the kittens still in your room?” he asked finally
at the top of the stairs. “Marian, have a little patience with people!”

“But she was so inexcusably rude,” she said, horrified
at the tears that sprang into her eyes. “She avoids looking at you as if you
were . . . were leprous. Oh, it mortifies me!”

He took her hand again, brought it to his lips, and
kissed it. “My dear lady, are you always so quick to spring to the defense? Do
you not think I am old enough to defend myself?”

“Yes! I mean, no . . . Oh, I do not know what I mean,”
she said, and dabbed at her eyes. “I own I was not altogether kind to Sir
William, either. Oh, I cannot imagine what you must think of us.”

He only smiled and bowed. “My dear Marian
...
Do you mind if I call you Marian? Miss
Wynswich seems too formal, and after all, that is still your sister’s title.
Marian, I am going to my room to put on my boots. Assemble your kittens and let
us be off.”

She stood where she was. “Do you know, Lord Ingraham,
no one has ever kissed my hand before. Except Alistair, and he only does it to
make me angry.”

His hand on the doorknob, Lord Ingraham looked back at
her. “Then I declare the local swains utterly devoid of feeling, sense, and duty.
Now, hurry up, Marian, and don’t stand there with your mouth open. You’ll catch
flies.” But she still stood there, shaking her head. “Now, what?” Lord Ingraham
asked, the amusement almost palpable in his voice.

“Percy admonished me only this morning to remember how
well-bred you are, how exalted
...”
She stopped. “Oh, why the devil do I not mind my tongue!” He laughed. “Never
tell me that Percy said I was ‘exalted?’”

“Oh, no, no. That was my word. And he is wrong, or you
have changed remarkably in a short space.” It was her turn to laugh. “But Papa
used to say that the Wynswiches have that effect on some.”

The kittens, all tumbled together, were sleeping off a
mighty feeding in the basket by her bed. Marian pulled on her oldest riding
boots and cloak and picked up the basket. Whatever is the matter with me? she
asked herself as she put the basket down for a peek in the mirror. Her cheeks
were bright. “Drat!” she said, picked up the mother cat, and added her to the
basket.

Ingraham waited for her in the hall. He took the basket
from her and pulled her hood up over her hair. “Lead on,” he said.

The rain was letting up, but the stableyard was a
quagmire.

“Does it truly do nothing but rain in Devon?” Lord
Ingraham asked as he carefully picked his way through the mud.

“The summers are quite pleasant, my lord,” she said,
and resolved herself to remember herself. The resolution lasted only a moment.
She stopped suddenly in the middle of a puddle, her hands on her hips. “But, my
lord, I like it here in Devon, and you would, too, when the mist clears and the
tree frogs sing after a spring rain.”

He laughed, and she blushed and then hurried ahead of
him into the stables so he would not notice. She waved to the stableboy and led
Lord Ingraham to her workroom, pausing for just a moment to breathe deep of the
horse smell, and remind herself all over again to set a good example and not
give Percy pause to scold.

“There, over there.” She gestured, and Lord Ingraham
set the basket down where the straw was spread around. “Papa let me have this
room for my patients.”

Mama Cat took momentary exception to the barn owl that
watched her, unblinking, from a perch nearby. She arched her back at him, but
the owl regarded her only a moment more and then elaborately turned his back.